Sexual Revolution
by Epeolatry
Summary: In which Grantaire & Enjolras dance around their feelings for each other, while all of their friends are busy have amazing sex!
1. Made to be Broken

"Where am I?"

Enjolras sat up weakly on the sofa and extracted his limbs from the unfamiliar blanket he was covered with. The law student's usually sharp mind was fuzzy and his head throbbed from the events of the previous afternoon; he could recall the protest beginning peacefully enough, then descending into violence upon the arrival of some opportunistic thugs after dark. He remembered vaguely the police arriving, a cosh swinging down, red behind his eyelids, and Joly's worried face.

"My place," answered a hoarse voice, and Enjolras' aching head gave a sharp jolt of pain as he turned to see a man coming down the hallway of the mystery flat, looking half asleep and wearing only black boxer shorts. His arms and chest were covered in whorls of colour and splashes of words, enough to make Enjolras blearily try to puzzle out the pattern on a shirt, but no, the detailing was on the man's skin rather than any clothing. His hair was dark and unkempt, curls spilling almost to his shoulders, and his face was unshaven and haggard, his green eyes tinted red and underscored with deep purple bags.

Enjolras groped in his hazy mind for the man's name, found it, lost it, seized it again and said, "Grantaire? But you weren't even at the protest."

"No, but I was at the riot afterwards. How's your head?"

Grantaire was practically a stranger to Enjolras, and he wondered how he had ended up here in this (_rather seedy_) flat. The two had only met once or twice, being acquainted through Jehan's new boyfriend, Montparnasse, whom Enjolras openly disapproved of.

Enjolras lifted a hand and gingerly felt his forehead, his fingers immediately recoiling from a deep gash above his left eyebrow which was held together by butterfly stitches; "Sore."

Grantaire smiled wryly, "I'll bet. You took quite a beating last night, there was so much blood I could have painted your portrait in it. Your mate Joly fixed you up and we brought you back here as it was closest. He reckoned you didn't have a concussion so we let you sleep – not that we could have stopped you! You were out cold by the time we got back, Bahorel had to carry you up the stairs."

Enjolras merely grunted in response; he was focussing hard on putting together the fragments of memory that kept drifting in and out of reach, names and faces, unfamiliar places, blood-filled dreams and the loudness of reality, all entwined…

They had arrived at the protest around 2 o'clock in the afternoon, just the core group – Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Joly, Marius, and of course Cosette tagging along behind. All had been going well, and Joly had invited his old friend Musichetta to join them after her shift at the bar ended. The vivacious barmaid had arrived just as the sun was setting with one of Marius' ex-classmates, Bossuet, and another boy in tow, a grinning hulk of a boy with facial piercings and a mohawk who had introduced himself as Bahorel…

Try as he might, Enjolras couldn't recall the arrival of Grantaire at all, but that wasn't too worrying – after all, he'd only met the man a handful of times, and very briefly at that.

What he _did_ recall was the arrival of a gang of thugs not unknown to the core student group, nor to Musichetta it seemed, for she began a screaming match with the largest of the men – Gueulemer - and ended by storming off alone and in tears…

Ah! That was it, that was how they had become separated!

Joly and the others had followed Musichetta to make sure that she was ok, while he and Combeferre had been left behind to hold the fort, so to speak. As night had fallen he remembered a growing sense of disquiet at the numerous sirens that screamed a few streets away, and the acrid smell of smoke in the air…

Just as his lieutenant suggested that they call it a day, a garrison of police officers – some armed, some mounted – had stormed up the street, bottle necking the small pockets of peaceful student groups still remaining.

Enjolras, as was his wont, strode right up to the police and tried to reason with them. When his attempts at civility were shot down he had given way to righteous indignation (_anger_, whispered a voice in his aching head, which he quickly quashed). And the rest of the story was attested to by the gash on his forehead and the ache in his brain.

Where Grantaire had figured he was still unsure, but he was cognisant enough to swallow his pride and be grateful to this dishevelled acquaintance, who was now perched unsteadily at the far end of Enjolras' sofa, his pale torso and arms daubed with numerous tattoos that Enjolras had never had the opportunity of seeing closely before now. Splashes of colour swirled around words and symbols, all intertwining in swooping chaos across the artist's skin that made Enjolras' delicate head hurt.

"So… You want some breakfast? I was just about to make coffee…" Grantaire looked distinctly ill at ease, so to spare him any further trouble Enjolras elected not to stay for breakfast. He shook his head to indicate as much and promptly slid off the sofa, his vision blacked out and his skull crackling with fierce pain.

"Shit!" yelped Grantaire, driving another white-hot lance through Enjolras' head, but he grabbed the injured man's shoulders and hauled him back onto the sofa, concern darkening his green eyes.

Enjolras' vision swam; he noticed through his haze that his grey t-shirt was spattered with dried blood. Grantaire's dark head, inches from his own, was an inky smear, and the words coming from him were indistinct.

"Right, I'm calling Joly. No, fuck it, I'm calling an ambulance, this is bad-"

"No," Enjolras' voice was slurred, and the sudden sound of it surprised him but also seemed to steady him, "No," he repeated more loudly, a tone of command coming naturally to him even in his distress.

"No?" asked Grantaire, looking like he was caught half way between scepticism and panic.

"No. Thank you. I'm fine, just a little dizzy."

As if his body had wished to underscore these words, at that moment Enjolras slumped forward onto Grantaire's bare chest. The tattooed man gripped Enjolras' shoulders tightly, almost protectively, as he again pushed the law student into a sitting position. He kept his grip firm as he looked Enjolras in the eye and said slowly, "I can't make you do anything that you don't want to, but I _really_ think you should let me get you to the hospital."

Their faces were so close that Enjolras could feel Grantaire's breath on his skin, hot and ashy, and another wave of dizziness threatened to engulf him even as he stared defiantly back and said, "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, you're stubborn!" said Grantaire with a low laugh, "Will you at least let me call Joly? He said he wanted to know when you woke up anyway."

"Fine," conceded Enjolras as haughtily as was possible, considering that he was still relying on Grantaire to keep him upright.

"_Fine_," smiled Grantaire, "Where's your phone? I don't have his number."

"My pocket," grunted Enjolras, twitching his hips weakly to indicate his jeans.

"And you want me to…?" asked Grantaire with one eyebrow raised.

Eyes ablaze, Enjolras silently dared the other man to make a joke about his predicament; he couldn't even shake his head without almost losing consciousness, how was he supposed to fish his phone out of his pocket?

The dark-haired man seemed to take the hint and murmured, "Okay…" as he bent his head and slid a hand into the pocket of Enjolras' tight black jeans, the student's head now resting on his bare shoulder. He fumbled for a moment against Enjolras' thigh as the invalid breathed in a heady mixture of smells that included cigarette smoke, shampoo, stale beer, blood, and a strong musky scent all of Grantaire's own; he was almost overcome again when Grantaire muttered, "Got it," and withdrew.

The artist's pale, stubbled cheeks were a little flushed, and he quickly turned his face away from the blonde leaning into his chest, pawing inexpertly at the iphone now in his hand.

"How d'you…?"

Finally, he managed to locate Joly's number, and Enjolras' drifting mind caught only snippets of the ensuing conversation;

"Yeah, he's awake… No, I don't-… Just dizzy, says he's fine… No. Well, okay… Yeah, it's… Well you know where to find us."

"You smoke?" Asked Enjolras thickly, his brain still fighting to process the sensory overload of a moment before.

"Yeah. I also drink, take drugs, and get into plenty of fights. That a problem for you?"

"No," murmured Enjolras, still half lost in the mire of his sluggish brain, "It's just the smell… It's intoxicating…"

The student's blue eyes were unfocussed as he said this, and Grantaire was suddenly, _hotly_, aware of how close they were, pressed chest to chest with Grantaire's strong hands still wrapped around Enjolras' shoulders and the invalid's arms circled weakly around his waist. Their lips were so close that the artist could feel Enjolras' dry, shallow breaths on his stubbled cheek, and he was sure that Enjolras was breathing in his own cigarette-stained exhalations.

Grantaire found himself leaning slowly down and forward, unable to stop, although it seemed to take hours to close the gap of an inch between them. For his part, Enjolras seemed to be leaning in as well, or was he just slowly giving in to gravity? He did have a head wound after all, and oh god was it wrong to want to kiss someone who was probably suffering from some kind of cranial trauma? Did Grantaire have a duty of care, was he breaching some kind of doctor-patient trust complex?

They were millimetres apart now, and Enjolras' blue eyes were closed – _yes, he was definitely into this_ – when;

"'Taire?" came a sleepy female voice from the hallway, making the two men lurch apart, "Where'd you go? It's cold, come back and cuddle me, I- Oh. Hi."

The sudden movement was too much for Enjolras, who let out a small whimper of a moan and collapsed fully onto Grantaire, out cold.

"What the actual fuck?" Éponine had emerged from the tiny bedroom that she and Grantaire platonically shared in their dingy flat wearing only a pair of knickers and one of his oversized t-shirts. Her long, dark hair was messy with sleep and hung down over her too-thin shoulders. She worked night shifts at an erotic dance club and so had been absent from the riot of the previous evening and ignorant of the fact that Enjolras was crashing (convalescing?) on their couch.

Grantaire was desperately pushing the law student upright, calling his name over and over before panicking, "Oh shit, he's really out cold. Can you grab that phone and call Joly? What do we do? Do we put him in the recovery position? I don't even fucking know what the recovery position is!"

Éponine was momentarily thrown by the amount of hysteria she had stumbled into only seconds after waking up, but she quickly recovered, grabbed the phone, located Joly's number, and called him.

"Hi, is that Joly?"

"Uh… yes?"

"It's Éponine, Grantaire's flatmate. Your friend is here, he's just passed out, we- "

"I'll be there in five."

And the medical student hung up.

"Can I ask who…?"

"_Enjolras_, he's one of Jehan's mates, you've met him before. Last night there was a protest that turned into a riot – he got beat down by a cop. We brought him here as it was closest and he's just fucking passed out and what if he dies, Ép? What do you do if someone fucking _dies_ on your sofa?"

Éponine shrugged, inured to both Grantaire's high drama and the advent of unconscious strangers appearing in her home, "Call 'Parnasse?"

"Shit, shit, shit," Grantaire repeated over and over like a mantra as he manhandled Enjolras into the recovery position under Éponine's direction. Once the blonde was lying safely on his side, ascertained to be breathing, and the gash above his left eye not bleeding, Grantaire seemed to calm down a little.

Éponine lit up two cigarettes and passed one to her flatmate who took it with a grateful smile and dragged deeply.

"One question."

"Yeah?"

"Was he already unconscious when you tried to kiss him?"

"Jesus Christ!"


	2. Of Fools and Kings

It was a Tuesday evening exactly one week after the Enjolras incident, and the seedy one bedroom apartment shared by Grantaire and Éponine was raucous with laughter and thick with smoke and cursing. Bahorel's considerable frame was spread across the one small sofa, a hand sporting two split knuckles resting over his bandaged ribs and a dark contusion forming on the right side of his grimacing face. Bossuet, a dark-skinned dropout with a shaven head and an eyebrow piercing, performed an amusing re-enactment of the amateur bare-knuckle boxing match that had resulted in Bahorel's injuries.

"And then this tiny little guy – five foot nothing, I swear! – just ducks under and twats him a good one on the cheek. He went down like a tonne of bricks! Fucking David versus Goliath, man! Lost me fifty quid but it was worth it to watch this guy hit the floor!"

Montparnasse lounged easily against the foot of the occupied sofa looking dangerous and dapper as usual, his dark hair slicked into a casual pompadour and the studs on the shoulders of his leather jacket gleaming dully in the light. The dandy was alternating between taking deep drags on the joint that was being passed around and leaving love bites on the neck of his new boyfriend, who lay across his lap. The fair haired boy was a student, the only one of the group who had anywhere to be the next morning, and he was wearing an eccentric combination of clashing floral prints that made Grantaire's fingers itch for a paintbrush.

Grantaire himself was lying sprawled on the floor, laughing lazily around his cigarette with a bottle of cheap wine clutched in one hand. He was content. Soon Feuilly, Éponine, and Musichetta would be arriving, the carpenter having picked the two girls up from their shifts on his way home from work. Feuilly had also promised to bring along some wood paint swiped from the workshop, as Grantaire had run out of both acrylics and ready cash.

The flat was small and cheap and nasty, two steps away from squalid and unlikely to have been considered habitable by anyone other than a couple of perpetually broke twenty-somethings who would otherwise have been homeless. Between them, Grantaire and Éponine owned exactly one sofa, one table, two rickety wooden chairs (one of which lacked a seat), and one old double mattress that reposed dustily on their bare bedroom floor. Nevertheless, the sparsely furnished step-up from a hovel had become the meeting point of their little gang, and the grimy space often accommodated seven or more of their vagrant friends, depending on who at the time was jobless (usually Bossuet), laying low (Bahorel), in trouble with money (Feuilly), an ex (Musichetta), or the law (Montparnasse).

Grantaire liked it best this way, loud with voices and colourful with language, when he didn't have much time to dedicate to his own thoughts and reveries, or any time to himself at all.

As Bahorel wrestled a shrieking Bossuet off the couch despite his bruised ribs, the front door banged open and in stepped Feuilly followed closely by Musichetta and Éponine who shouted, "What up, bitches?" and was clearly still buzzing from her shift at the strip club, where it was her custom to do a line of coke for every pole that she twirled around.

Feuilly's rough tradesman's hands deposited two tins of wood paint – red and black – beside Grantaire, who offered up his bottle in thanks and eagerly pried the lid off one tin with a bottle opener. Dark-haired and dusky-skinned Musichetta followed this offering with a fresh bottle of wine swiped from behind the bar she worked at. The artist took a gulp from the bottle and drew a quick, sloppy sketch with the thick paint on the nearest wall (one of the advantages of living in a condemned building), attempting to capture the chaotic florals of Montparnasse's boyfriend.

_Jehan_, he reminded himself.

The kid was nestled between the criminal's legs, happily toking on a joint while Montparnasse argued amiably with Bossuet and carded his lithe fingers through Jehan's fair hair.

"You're missing the point, the _law_ may say that theft is wrong but there are higher laws than those made up by governments- "

"Like the law of God? Like, 'Thou shalt not steal'? Ring any bells?" Bossuet teased.

It was foolishness to get into a legal debate with the law school dropout and Montparnasse knew it, but he was stoned enough to try defending his habits anyway.

"Like the law of the land, the law of survival! I steal to survive."

"And those skinny jeans were essential to your survival, yeah?"

"Precisely."

Meanwhile, Éponine had settled herself on the sofa alongside Bahorel and was talking a million miles a minute while he nodded his bruised head in bemusement.

"It's been a crazy night, well not really crazy, but I guess it could still get crazy, it's been more _wild_ than crazy I guess, you know what I mean? Of course you do. Anyway it's been, like- "

Ginger-bearded Feuilly was ensconced cross-legged in a corner smoking like a chimney, a cigarette in one rough hand and the joint just passed to him by Montparnasse in the other, with Grantaire's wine at his feet.

Suddenly the opening beats of David Guetta's 'Sexy Bitch' blasted through the chatter and laughter and turned everyone's heads to the unexpected and frankly foreign sound. Jehan calmly reached into the pocket of his floral skinny jeans and withdrew his wailing phone, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the others as he answered.

"Hi Courf… Yeah… Well, I'm kinda… No, I'll be there soon. Bye."

Montparnasse was stroking Jehan's fair hair while staring coolly around the room, as if daring any of the others to comment on his lover's choice of ringtone. As usual, Éponine was the only one to show no fear in the face of Montparnasse's glare.

"What the fuck was that?"

"That was Courfeyrac," answered Jehan brightly, "Sorry guys, it's been lovely but I have to go – Enjolras has called an emergency meeting."

At the sound of the law student's name Grantaire's hand stopped dead, halfway through a painted flourish of Jehan's hair. Thankfully, no one noticed his sharp reaction. Now, if he just continued his sketch-

"Grantaire's boyfriend, you mean?" asked Éponine impishly, immediately refocussing all attention on the struggling artist.

Grantaire, facing the wall, thankfully had a moment in which to compose his facial expression before turning to the others and scoffing, "That marble statue with a stick up his arse? Like hell! If I want lessons in masochism I'll take them from Bahorel."

"He stayed here after that riot last week," she confided to the listening crowd with a sly smile, "You should have seen 'Taire! All over him like a lovesick puppy!"

"He had a head wound. He collapsed on me," grumbled Grantaire.

"And you just _happened_ to be shirtless at the time…"

"_You_ were wearing my shirt!"

A dreamy sigh interrupted their argument; it came from Jehan, who had his hands clasped under his chin and a look of ecstasy on his lightly freckled face as he asked, "Do you love him?"

"What? I don't know… No!" stuttered Grantaire, startled by the candidness of the question.

Another sigh escaped Jehan's lips as Montparnasse smirked beside him, arms wound protectively around the literature student's slim waist in a silent warning.

"Maybe if you get to know him," reflected Jehan, still smiling amid the incredulous faces around him, "I'm sure he must get lonely… Enjolras _says_ he's perfectly happy alone, but I think that everyone needs someone, sometimes. Perhaps he just hasn't met the right person?"

Grantaire realised that his mouth was hanging open in a gape of surprise. No one in his group of friends was very forthcoming about their feelings, and their friendships were based more on rough and tumble and hazy shared memories of nights spent drinking and fighting, rather than on deep and meaningful heart to hearts. Jehan's sensitivity was an unknown quantity in the room of dropouts and drug dealers, and the facial expressions of the others reflected the surprise felt by Grantaire.

Jehan meanwhile was totally unconcerned by the odd looks he was getting. He stood, stretched gracefully, bent to plant a kiss on Montparnasse's smooth cheek and again addressed Grantaire, "If you'd like to get to know him better he's usually at the Café Musain, or at home with Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Marius – they share a house two streets away from the university."

Then he turned to the rest of the room and said politely but with every indication of complete sincerity, "Good night everybody, it was lovely to see you all," and let himself out.

The quiet remained even after the door clicked shut behind him. Finally, Éponine said to Montparnasse, "Your new boyfriend is crazy."

The bad boy shrugged, "True. But he's dynamite in bed."

And normalcy returned.

After another few bottles were drained, joints passed, and arguments begun, the night started to get messy. Feuilly managed to get Bahorel in a headlock and both of them went tumbling off the sofa and onto the floor. As he hit the ground Bahorel grunted loudly and one huge, bruised hand shot to his ribcage as he winced in pain.

"Oh shit, sorry mate!" apologised Feuilly, helping the amateur boxer unsteadily to his feet despite being smaller in stature and more heavily intoxicated.

"I think I've had enough for the night," grimaced Bahorel, making his way to the door with a pronounced limp.

"I'll come with you," offered Feuilly with a yawn, "I'm knackered."

A chorus of disapproval rose from their assembled friends at this, but Feuilly laughed it off, "Maybe when you lot get real, proper jobs that involve actually working and getting up early and being on time you'll understand!"

A diminished chorus of grumbling answered this and the ginger-haired carpenter laughingly threw a two-fingered salute back at his friends before helping Bahorel out the door and down the stairs.

When they reached street level Bahorel shrugged off Feuilly's arm, insisting, "I can walk on my own without a pipsqueak like you propping me up!"

"Whatever," snorted Feuilly good-naturedly as Bahorel hobbled along.

They shared a flat not too far from Grantaire & Éponine's, though in a slightly nicer part of town thanks to Feuilly's fairly reliable pay cheques. Feuilly lit up a cigarette as they walked in the cool air, listening to Bahorel grunting painfully with each step until the carpenter sighed, "Are you going to ask for help, or just whinge all night like a little girl?"

"Fine," snorted the boxer, "Can you please come here and help me."

"There's a good boy," Feuilly grinned, ducking the half-hearted swipe aimed at him before heaving one of Bahorel's thick arms over his shoulders and taking some of the boxer's weight. They weaved unsteadily the rest of the way home, Bahorel staggering under the combined effects of pain and intoxication, and Feuilly rather too drunk to be attempting to support anyone else, especially no one as large as Bahorel.

When they finally reached the flat Feuilly managed to get the door open after a few minutes of frustrated fiddling, and then deposited Bahorel in his room.

"'Night," he said and turned to go, but Bahorel's hand shot out and caught his wrist.

"Stay."

"Oh for fuck sake, not this again!" Feuilly was the one wincing now; whenever Bahorel was hurt in a fight he got clingy, and whenever he was drunk he got horny – the resultant equation was not something Feuilly particularly liked to be present for.

"_Stay_," ordered Bahorel more forcefully, his bruised knuckles clenching tighter around Feuilly's callused hand.

The carpenter rolled his eyes, "I have work in the morning, I can't stay here all night playing nursemaid. It's just a couple of bruised ribs, nothing you haven't recovered from before."

"You could be a naughty nurse…" Bahorel's eyes glittered nastily in the dark and Feuilly flinched away from the libidinous boxer, doing his best to ignore any stirrings that may or may not have been beginning in the pit of his own stomach.

"Bahorel, _no_," hissed Feuilly, struggling to prise the strong, insistent fingers off him, "Not tonight, _not ever again_, I told you last time, I- Mmph!"

Bahorel yanked hard and Feuilly sprawled over the bed, half on Bahorel and half on the mattress, missing all of the bruised parts of his friend more by luck than by design. The boxer's bruised lips crushed into his flatmate's and the larger man expertly rolled over, pinning Feuilly beneath him and yanking both of the tradesman's rough hands above his head.

Jehan arrived at the emergency meeting in the Café Musain both late and stoned, two things that were sure to catch Enjolras' attention. It wasn't really fair to chastise the poet for this behaviour as the meeting had been such a last minute arrangement (a mitigating circumstance which Combeferre dutifully pointed out to Enjolras as they all filed out of the Café), but Enjolras still insisted on asking Jehan for a private word.

"Jehan, are you okay?"

"Sure," smiled the poet.

"_Are_ you? This was a serious meeting tonight and you've arrived not only late but also intoxicated," The meeting had not really been terribly serious; it had simply been a notification of a date change for an upcoming protest march which could have been delivered by text message, but Enjolras was a stickler for efficient planning and time management, "- This new boyfriend of yours… You know I disapprove. _We_ disapprove, all of us. He's part of a bad crowd Jehan, and he's introducing you to casual vice."

"Enjolras, please," said Jehan quietly but firmly, trying to keep himself from rolling his large, blue eyes, "I know you don't like 'Parnasse, but _I_ like him. I _love_ him, in fact. And he loves me. And I've smoked weed and enjoyed sodomy since high school, so I don't think he's really that bad an influence on me… Besides," he added with a mischievous twinkle, as Enjolras curled his lip at the word 'sodomy', "I don't think it's _my_ love life you ought to be worrying about."

"What do you mean?" asked Enjolras indifferently.

"I mean that Grantaire – one of 'Parnasse's _bad crowd_ – really likes you."

"Grantaire? No. Not possible."

"Why not?"

"Because he has a girlfriend."

"Does he?"

"I saw her that morning after the protest when I woke up on his sofa. She came out of his bedroom wearing only her underwear and his shirt."

"Éponine?"

"I think so."

"Ah," smiled Jehan, his panic at Grantaire's apparent indiscretion evaporating, "She's just his flatmate. "

"I don't think so," Enjolras shook his head stubbornly, "Not unless they're flatmates like Courfeyrac and Combeferre are flatmates."

Jehan's face fell into a shocked expression, then he burst out laughing.

"They think I don't know," Enjolras said with a wry smile, "Just because I'm not inclined towards casual fornication myself doesn't mean I don't notice when others are. Especially not with all the noise Courfeyrac makes!"

Jehan looked positively delighted, "I'm so glad I don't have to keep my mouth shut about that anymore! How long have you known?"

"About as long as it's been happening. I'm tactful Jehan, not blind."

"Well, you seem to be to Grantaire."

"I told you, he's not interested. And furthermore you know me well enough to know that _I'm_ not interested in that nonsense."

"What nonsense? _Love_?" asked Jehan, looking a little hurt.

"Yes. No. I recognise love as a powerful force in the world, but I chose not to partake in it myself. I've never felt any inclination towards all that hand holding, date nighting, constantly texting _bondage_ to another human being. No, I've seen how detrimental it can be first hand, have you noticed how Marius' grades have been slipping lately?"

Jehan giggled at the word 'bondage' and said slyly, "Well, what about the other side of it?"

"What other side? You mean the naked, sweaty, flailing of limbs that ends in messy ejaculation and an awkward morning after? Why would I possibly want that? Courfeyrac does enough of it for all of us I should think."

Jehan sighed; clearly he was getting nowhere, "Well, if you ever change your mind I'm quite sure that I know one person who would be happy to hold your hand, or engage in a messy flailing of limbs with you…"

Enjolras pressed his lips together in a thin, hard line of disapproval, and followed Jehan out of the Café. And if he fell asleep that night thinking of a certain cynical artist's lithe limbs and paint-smeared fingers, well, no one had to know.

Feuilly had worked hard every day of his life since dropping out of high school; he had started as a sixteen-year-old unskilled labourer and made his way through various building sites, garages, and factory floors before finally completing his carpentry apprenticeship. Partly as a result of this continued daily exertion and partly due to good genetics, his freckled shoulders were brawny, his hands strong and callused, his arms well developed and muscular, his back broad, and he was not easily pushed around. Bahorel however was bigger. The mohawk-sporting amateur boxer was the only one in the group physically larger and stronger than Feuilly, and as a result the only one who could have possibly put him in this position.

Feuilly was thrashing from side to side, trying to escape the bruising, unwanted kiss. The boxer kept him easily restrained, his pierced tongue demanding, his hips grinding down on the body beneath him as much as possible without hurting his own ribs. Finally Bahorel relented, pulling away just enough to let his roommate breathe.

Feuilly gasped out angrily, "I told you last time! Never again! It fucking hurts! And _I_. _Don't. Like. Dick!_"

"No homo," grinned Bahorel as he tried to seize Feuilly's lips again, but was evaded. Careless dark stubble grazed carefully maintained ginger beard.

"I mean it, man," Feuilly's anger had dissipated into a whine, and an experimental shift of Bahorel's hips confirmed that Feuilly's body was certainly not objecting to the rough treatment as much as his mouth was.

Realising what was fast becoming self-evident, Feuilly's freckled face coloured as he started, "It's a physiological reaction man, it's just animal instinct, dumb animal flesh, it's…" he sighed as Bahorel rocked his hips down again, unable to deny what his body was already begging for, "Ok fine. But you're _not_ putting it in me again. That shit hurt!"

"That's what you said last time," purred Bahorel, "And then you _begged_ me for it."

"Why don't _you_ try being on the bottom for once," grumbled Feuilly, but his half-hard cock twitched in his trousers and his struggling arms had gone limp under his friend's tight hold.

Bahorel leant down and kissed Feuilly more softly now that the carpenter had submitted and was no longer trying to escape. The kiss was almost tender, both men tasting of smoke and wine, Bahorel's lower lip split and swollen and the familiar scent of wood shavings coming off Feuilly's work clothes as he pressed himself up against the larger body.

Bahorel groaned deeply as he rutted against Feuilly, his erection rubbing hotly against the other man through frustrating layers of material. Feuilly responded, writhing beneath his bruised flatmate, restrained hands clutching at bloodied knuckles.

Bahorel growled, reaching down suddenly and grabbing Feuilly's belt with one hand while the other continued to pin down the carpenter's rough hands. He fiddled for a moment, bruised fingers made clumsy by drink, but eventually he released the clasp and as Feuilly canted his hips upward into the boxer's groin the length of leather was roughly removed.

Bahorel smirked into their kiss and Feuilly pulled away with a wary look, "What are you…?"

But the belt was already looped around his wrists and snapped tight, secured to the wrought iron bed-head and immobilising his strong arms.

"The fuck, man!" Feuilly spat, beginning to panic again as Bahorel laughed coarsely and stroked his bearded face gently in tender contrast to the rough, sloppy kisses that he planted down the struggling man's jaw line and throat.

As Feuilly continued to protest against being tied up, Bahorel nipped lightly at his neck, working his way down the man's shoulders and unbuttoning his plaid shirt for better access to his broad chest.

"Please," whimpered Feuilly as Bahorel sucked a nipple into his mouth and teased it with his teeth; even the carpenter was no longer aware of exactly what he was begging for as Bahorel started palming his flatmate's stiff cock through his dusty trousers. The boxer continued to work his mouth down the toned chest and flat stomach until he reached the waistband and swiftly unbuttoned the trousers.

Feuilly's hips bucked up of their own accord as a soft groan escaped him, and Bahorel smiled up at his tied flatmate, "I thought you wanted me to stop?"

Feuilly stared down at the larger man, his green eyes hot with indecision as he muttered, "Fuck you."

"Maybe another time," grinned Bahorel wickedly, wrenching the trousers down Feuilly's hips and drawing a startled grunt from the other man as his stiff cock was suddenly exposed to the cool air of the apartment.

Then a sharp gasp cut through the dark room as Bahorel drew Feuilly's cock into his mouth, just taking the tip at first and swiping his pierced tongue over the sensitive head, tasting salt and sweat and relishing the stutter of the other man's hips as he moved his mouth further down the length.

Feuilly's wrists were still dragging insistently against their bonds but for different reasons now; he was groaning loudly, unashamedly, as Bahorel's hot mouth slid up and down his cock, the boxer doing his best to take it when Feuilly's hips thrust raggedly into his throat despite not being terribly experienced in sucking dick.

Feuilly's groans became a litany of mixed curse words and encouragement, damning Bahorel as much as praising him as his mouth drove the carpenter to distraction, "You fucking… Fuck! Just… Oh my god, yeah, suck me! Fucking take it you selfish wanker! _Yes!_"

His hips snapped up into Bahorel's mouth and the boxer gagged, pulling away to catch his breath as Feuilly panted and writhed beneath him.

"'Selfish wanker'?" He smiled filthily, "_You're_ the one face-fucking a guy with a split lip!" And sure enough there was a trickle of blood making its way down Bahorel's chin where his wound had been reopened by Feuilly's demanding thrusts.

"You started it," grunted Feuilly sulkily, his cock achingly hard and twitching with need as it lay heavily against his flat stomach.

"And what are you gonna do about it?" smirked Bahorel; Feuilly's hands were tied and as his trousers had only been pushed down to mid-thigh in their hurry, his movement was severely restricted.

The carpenter rolled his eyes, "Who knew you were such a kinky little faggot."

"Says the man begging me to suck his cock!" laughed Bahorel as he carefully removed his own shirt, revealing a heavily muscled torso interrupted by a white bandage stretched over his ribs and a number of scattered, fist-sized bruises.

"I never begged," muttered Feuilly, looking away with anger in his blackly lustful eyes.

"Hey, come on," wheedled Bahorel, stripping off his trousers as well so that now they were both exposed, his cock just as hard as Feuilly's and already leaking from the slit, "I'll make it worth your while, you know that…"

Feuilly's body shuddered as he recalled vividly the last time they'd been drunk and horny – Bahorel had taken him roughly over the dining table, and although he hadn't entirely enjoyed the experience, he'd still come with an ecstatic shout of his flatmate's name – and the time before that, when Bahorel had sucked him off so well he'd almost blacked out, and he had swum back into consciousness to find himself handed a cigarette and a beer, which had of course led to round two…

Their very first time Feuilly had passed out in his room during a party and awoken groggily to find Bahorel pressed up against him, brushing bruised fingers through his ginger hair and mumbling incoherently about the girl who had just broken up with the boxer that morning. Bahorel had been drunk out of his mind and who could blame Feuilly if he'd woken up with an erection? The maudlin boxer's knuckles had brushed against the bulge in the carpenter's trousers and they'd been unable to stop themselves.

All of these memories crowded in on Feuilly's drunken mind, making his cock stir yet more insistently as Bahorel circled his large hand around it and pumped lazily.

"Oh for fuck sake..." he groaned, tossing his head back on the pillow, and Bahorel knew his flatmate well enough to take the profanity as consent.

He slid back up the leaner man's body, still keeping his grip on Feuilly's leaking cock, and with his other hand he rummaged clumsily in his bedside drawer, cursing under his breath until he managed to close his fingers around the lube he kept 'just in case'.

Capturing Feuilly's lips in a sloppy, blood-slicked kiss before the restrained man could protest the introduction of lube (and its attendant implications), Bahorel thumbed open the tube, withdrew his hand from Feuilly's cock and slicked it with far too much liquid, before pushing his hand back down between their rutting bodies and grabbing both his own and Feuilly's cocks in one large, hot, wet fist.

Feuilly groaned hoarsely into Bahorel's mouth and the boxer swallowed the sound with a growl of his own, his neglected cock throwing shivers up his spine at finally being touched, albeit by his own hand.

Feuilly thrust desperately into Bahorel's fist, all pretence at resistance abandoned in the face of the wet friction he was trapped in between strong fingers and Bahorel's solid length. The boxer continued stroking them together, encouraged by Feuilly's volubility.

"Fucking fuck, yes! Like _that_, oh fuck me I'm gonna- Jesus fucking Christ, it's- _Fuck!_"

Feuilly yelled once, sharply, as he came in Bahorel's fist and across their tightly pressed stomachs. Bahorel grunted and continued stroking them together, once, twice, thrice more until Feuilly was spent completely and the boxer just beginning, fresh ropes of come spurting from him just as Feuilly's seed had barely begun to cool.

They lay together for a few moments, Bahorel pressed on top of Feuilly with the aftermath of their orgasms drying messily between them and their breathing evening out in the dark room.

"Are you gonna get off me then?" asked Feuilly hoarsely, and Bahorel knew that the other man was itching for a cigarette, because when was Feuilly not itching for a cigarette? And he often proclaimed that the very best cigarettes were enjoyed post-coitally.

"Aw, you don't want to cuddle?" teased Bahorel as he peeled himself stickily off his friend, noting that the bandage over his ribs would probably need a clean replacement.

"No homo," replied Feuilly in a serious voice, but Bahorel could see his dopey smile in the half-light.

The boxer leant carefully over his flatmate and untied the callused hands from the bedpost, wincing as he realised how much worse his ribs felt after all their rutting and writhing. Feuilly massaged his wrists and looked disgustedly down at the mess spread across his and Bahorel's bellies.

"Fancy a shower?" suggested the boxer.

"You fucking queer!" laughed Feuilly, throwing a mock punch to one of the few unbruised spots on his flatmate's muscular chest.

"Is that a no?"

A moment's pause as Feuilly clambered out from underneath the larger man and finally shrugged his trousers all the way off. Then he stood and walked to the door, turning on the threshold and calling back, "Come on then, ya big poof."


	3. Come Back and Haunt Me

If anyone had asked Grantaire that evening why he had directed his steps to the Café Musain rather than the Corinthe where he was usually able to beg a few free drinks from Musichetta, he would have punched them in the throat in lieu of an answer; he had no answer for himself.

All he knew as he walked through the increasingly gentrified streets that led to the well-heeled university quarter was that Enjolras was an impossible fixation, and he very definitely hoped _not_ to run into him, despite Jehan's desire to play matchmaker.

He had already downed an entire bottle of wine just to convince himself to leave the flat, but his body was so used to inebriation that he was only slightly affected by the alcohol in his system as he entered the dimly lit Café.

His first thought was that 'Café' was a misnomer, because this was clearly a bar, albeit one entirely furnished with squashy armchairs and low tables. His second thought was knocked out of him along with all the air in his lungs as Jehan thudded into him in an enthusiastic bear hug.

"You came!"

"Uh, yeah…" stammered Grantaire, trying to extricate himself from Jehan and his loudly coloured sweater, "Look, I can't stay long, 'Chetta's got me a shift at the bar in a few hours, so- "

"Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone!"

Grantaire had no choice but to allow himself to be led away by the surprisingly strong grip of Jehan's slim scholar's fingers around his paint splattered wrist.

"So you've probably met most of us before, but I'll give you a refresher course anyway. That's Combeferre, the tall one in the glasses-"

A tall, serious looking young man with light, mousy coloured hair and square rimmed glasses raised a hand in greeting.

"- That's Courfeyrac -"

An extremely good-looking youth wearing a low cut v-neck t-shirt that showed off a smooth, tanned chest waggled his eyebrows and blew a kiss in a parody of seduction.

"- Joly -"

Another bespectacled student tried to wave hello but was forced to redirect his hand to cover his nose as he sneezed explosively.

"- Marius and Cosette, the law student and the professor's daughter, it was _meant to be_," sighed Jehan dreamily.

If Grantaire had anything to say about '_meant to be_'s he held his tongue. The entwined couple were too caught up in each other to notice the newcomer, sweet, dopey Marius gazing lovingly at Cosette with the goofy smile of one who cannot believe his luck, and beautiful Cosette chattering animatedly as she absent-mindedly combed her fingers through her long, blonde hair.

"And of course, you already know our fearless leader, Enjolras."

Grantaire felt his stomach clench as Enjolras' piercing blue eyes met his, and the blonde nodded once in curt greeting before returning to his speechifying. Grantaire briefly wondered at how quickly the open wound on the student's forehead had healed, and how the red welt that remained seemed to enhance rather than mar his natural beauty, underscoring the perfection by breaking into it, breaking through it, making him human rather than marble…

"- And that's it. Come join us!"

Jehan's fingers were still wrapped firmly around Grantaire's wrist, and he allowed himself to be pulled over to a sofa which was occupied by a very out-of-place looking Montparnasse whose lap was quickly occupied by Jehan. After a moment of indecision, Grantaire settled himself on the arm of the chair.

Grantaire was grateful for the silent presence of Montparnasse – another outsider – as well as the drink that he was handed. It quickly became apparent that this was not his scene at all; Enjolras' righteous haranguing and the lightning fast rebuttals and interjections of his comrades on topics as diverse as military history, gender politics, and local council by-laws skimmed over his head. Grantaire shot a look of scepticism at Montparnasse, hardly believing that these wide-eyed student revolutionaries could take themselves so seriously, making pretty speeches about changing the world when none of them had even experienced life outside the protective confines of an educational institution. Montparnasse shrugged nonchalantly, his nimble fingers gliding through Jehan's hair while his dark eyes glazed over, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Grantaire did what he always did in situations when no other occupation presented itself; he reached into his bag and pulled out his sketchbook.

The meeting (for this was certainly not a casual gathering of friends, Grantaire had quickly divined, it was a _meeting_ with an _agenda_ and a _minute taker_ and all attendant formalities) lasted well over an hour. During this time Grantaire managed to take a fairly good likeness of the scene, and he was particularly happy with the detail on Jehan's floral printed trousers, the freckles that skittered haphazardly across Marius' face, and the individual strands of Cosette's long hair that fell over her face as she perused a fashion magazine. He was just working on the detail of Enjolras' military-style jacket when a voice in his ear made his pencil jump.

"You didn't listen to a word, did you?"

He looked up and found himself caught in the clear blue gaze of Enjolras. Suddenly he felt like a schoolboy again, caught out daydreaming in the back of an important lesson.

"Um…"

"That's good," Enjolras interjected, catching sight of the sketch before Grantaire could hide it, "That's _really_ good. Are you an art student?"

A harsh laugh escaped Grantaire before he could swallow it; "As if I could afford the tuition fees! No, I'm self taught," he finished with a mixture of defiance and embarrassment.

If anything, Enjolras looked even more impressed with the drawing, which now appeared hopelessly inadequate to Grantaire.

"Do you do freelance illustration?"

"When I can."

"Would you consider doing some design work for our flyers and pamphlets?"

"Would I be paid?"

Damn. That came out sounding much more mercenary than he had intended.

Luckily Enjolras laughed. A rich, chesty laugh that made Grantaire wish that sounds could be painted.

"Never ask an artist to work for free! No, I get it -" Enjolras quickly added, as Grantaire opened his mouth to amend his harsh phrasing, "- No, really. I respect it actually. We're a non-profit organisation, but I'm sure we can work something out. For a start I can buy you a drink and we can discuss the project, as I'm pretty sure you didn't hear most of the meeting."

Grantaire was so taken aback by the glib offer from the beautiful student that he merely nodded dumb consent and found himself being steered towards the bar. Through the window he caught a glimpse of Jehan and Montparnasse sharing a cigarette, the first grinning widely and giving him the thumbs up, and the second smirking obscenely.

They sat together at the bar, Enjolras buying the drinks and Grantaire playing the part of enraptured audience member, listening intently but not really hearing a word that dropped from the blonde's lips; when Jehan asked him the next morning what he had been talking about with the law student for an hour and a half, the artist would be bereft of an answer.

He was losing himself in the other boy's voice, its strength, tone, timbre, and above all the passion infused in each carefully chosen word, the fire interwoven in the finely tuned rhetoric. It was a voice that brooked no argument, a voice well used to being well used, as steady and sure and irreproachable as the voice of God. A voice that would issue commands, would growl rather than whimper, and at the very apex of feeling it would shout openly, rapturously, rather than cursing breathlessly, incoherently, as Grantaire's own hoarse, smoke damaged voice did…

"You know there are student loans, scholarships… If you wanted to study we could work something out for you, I'm sure of it. I feel very strongly that everyone is entitled to an education."

Uh oh. Grantaire realised too late that they were talking about _him_, a topic he generally avoided as assiduously as possible.

Enjolras was looking at him steadily, a shrewd gleam in those cool, clear eyes as he awaited an answer.

"Uh… no," stammered Grantaire, trying desperately to keep from slurring in front of his near-sober benefactor, "I mean, I've looked into all that stuff before. It's just not workable. Academia never really was my thing anyway."

"To each his own," conceded Enjolras, surprising Grantaire who had expected at least a small amount of peer pressure from the summa cum laude student, "But if you ever change your mind I'd be happy to help. I don't like to boast but I've been pretty instrumental in a number of schemes designed to help disadvantaged students pay their way through university or technical college."

Had Éponine been present she would have bristled at the word 'disadvantaged', but Grantaire merely smirked wryly into his drink.

"You know, if you really wanted to help ease my dire financial situation you could tell me more about this design work you want done…"

A look of wariness shot across Enjolras' handsome face, and he said in a measured voice, "Like I said earlier, financial recompense is not really within my power to- "

Grantaire chuckled, "Calm down, I'm joking. Actually I've got a bar shift in twenty minutes so I gotta run. Pass me my bag?"

Still looking wary, Enjolras reached down between the two bar stools they occupied and easily lifted the artist's paint smeared bag as Grantaire tried not to look at the arch of bronzed skin where neck met collarbone, or the smooth movement of shoulder muscles beneath the thin t-shirt that rode up just enough to reveal tanned skin and a sculpted hip…

"Here," said the golden boy simply as he handed over the bag, unconscious of the dark-eyed appraisal he was receiving.

"Uh, thanks."

Grantaire mentally shook himself, bemoaning the fact that he was at least six drinks ahead of the level-headed law student beside him, and he was unlikely to ever see any more than that enticing sliver of skin, that jut of hip…

_Until he got home later tonight and casually decided to practise sketching nudes…_

He tore a corner of paper out of his sketchbook and scribbled a few digits on it.

"Here, this is my number and you already know where I live. Give me a call sometime and we can sort out this art thing."

Enjolras nodded once and slipped the paper into his pocket; Grantaire slid off his bar stool, clapped the blonde on the shoulder and exited the Café, feeling that on the whole he'd handled the entire situation much more smoothly than it had been reasonable to hope he might, especially considering that he was already half-hard inside his jeans after catching that pathetic glimpse of Enjolras' bare skin. Now all he had to do was get to the Corinthe and convince Musichetta that he wasn't already an hour late for the shift that she had begged her sleazy manager to give him…

Enjolras watched Grantaire leave with a thoughtful look on his handsome features; any of his friends would have thought that he was merely contemplating how best the artist could help his cause. But the law student's casual expression belied his inner turmoil as foreign and unsettling feelings twisted confusingly in his gut, feelings prompted by Grantaire's smile, his dark, unruly hair, his nimble, callused fingers, the chaotic tattoos that swept his skin, the laughter in his green eyes and the glimmer of something deeper, something sadder, there too… Most worrying of all – worse than the twisting, swooping sensation in his stomach when Grantaire had first walked in, worse than the plummeting, disappointed heat that had swept through him when the other boy left so abruptly – was the stirring in his trousers as his thoughts lingered on the artist…

Enjolras reddened slightly as he glanced around the Musain, ensuring that none of his friends were looking his way when he was in such an uncomfortable position. It was nothing really, his cock wasn't even half-hard, it was just the tentative beginnings of arousal and he ruthlessly quashed the sensation before it could grow into any more than that. All the same, it left an unsettled emptiness inside the law student, who hadn't experienced such stirrings in a very long time, and was fairly convinced that he never wanted to experience them again, especially so unbidden.

Turning away from the door whence Grantaire had exited, Enjolras busily shuffled the notes in front of him, returned them to his messenger bag, and hailed Combeferre over to the bar to continue discussing their latest campaign.

Later that night Grantaire had been sent home early from the bar by Musichetta, who had insisted loudly to her manager that the artist was suffering from 'flu rather than being head-spinningly drunk. He was lying alone in the bed (read: mattress on the floor) that he shared with Éponine, who wouldn't be home for another few hours, sweat-soaked and cursing the patriarchy but with her bra stuffed with cash.

He pulled out his battered phone – an old Nokia, scuffed and scratched but indestructible, and far better suited to his penniless, inebriated lifestyle than anything fancier. Jehan had carefully entered all of his friends' phone numbers into it earlier in the evening, and Grantaire blearily selected Combeferre's number.

GRANTAIRE

Is Enj gay?

So the message wasn't terribly subtle, but he knew that Combeferre was closest to Enjolras in the group and hoped that the peremptory drunkenness of his text would invite a similarly direct reply.

COMBEFERRE

No one's entirely certain. He claims not

to be a virgin but as no one has ever

seen him display any interest in either

sex we think that he might

misunderstand the meaning of the

word…

It was a better answer than 'no' at least, Grantaire consoled himself. If Enjolras was uninterested in sex in general then it meant that no one else could have him either, though it did seem like a waste of such a beautiful body… That golden blonde hair, falling just above his shoulders; that bronzed skin, so flawless that it made Grantaire want to suck bruises into it; that broad chest, where Grantaire imagined well-defined muscles stretching under the teasingly fitted t-shirts that seemed to be a penchant for the student…

Without realising it, Grantaire's hand had wandered down to his crotch, the heel of his palm pressing down on the growing bulge of his half-hard cock as he slipped deeper into a fantasy of undressing Enjolras.

He imagined that he'd stayed longer at the Café Musain, long enough for Enjolras to get a little drunk, a little giggly, a little handsy… They would stumble into one another laughing, then Enjolras would look at Grantaire, their eyes locking for a few significant seconds that felt like the end of the world and the beginning of a whole new universe, and then the blonde would press his lips into Grantaire's in a desperate kiss. It would be drunk and needy and perfectly filthy, there would be teeth and tongues clashing, and Enjolras' hands would tangle tightly in Grantaire's hair…

Grantaire could feel himself getting harder just at the thought of kissing Enjolras, and he unbuttoned his jeans, slipping a hand inside his boxers to stroke himself as he squeezed his eyes shut and immersed himself in the fantasy.

Enjolras would grab Grantaire's hand and drag him out the back of the bar to the toilets, and as soon as the cubicle door slammed shut behind them the student would shove Grantaire against it and kiss him again fiercely, pressing their bodies together against the graffitied door in a dirty, desperate rut.

Grantaire groaned quietly into the dark room, pausing just long enough to shuck off his jeans and boxers entirely and grab the almost empty bottle of lube from the chest of drawers before reseating himself on the mattress and taking himself in hand again, this time with the added benefit of lubrication.

Enjolras would be palming him roughly through his trousers, whispering filth in his ear as he kept him pinned to the door in the tiny cubicle, telling him he was gonna fuck him hard and fast and mercilessly and there was nothing he could do about it, telling him that he was gonna make him scream right there in the Café, where all of their friends might hear, where anyone might walk into the bathroom at any moment and hear them at it…

Grantaire groaned and bucked up into his fist at the thought.

Then Enjolras would spin him around so that Grantaire was braced face-first against the closed door, the student would drag his jeans roughly off and he would hear the snick of a cap being flicked off lube before Enjolras' cold, wet finger was circling his entrance. No preamble, no foreplay, just a quick, dirty fuck in a public toilet, with Enjolras' fist in his hair and his low, commanding voice in his ear telling him to _fucking take it_ as he slid two fingers immediately inside the artist and curled them viciously, searching for the spot that would make Grantaire howl.

Grantaire groaned louder as he slid a finger inside himself while continuing to jerk off.

Enjolras would add another slick finger, curling all three until Grantaire was all but sobbing, pushing back on his wicked hand and begging him, _please please please _just fuck me Enjolras,_ please_. And then the student would comply with the mewling artist's cries, withdrawing his fingers lazily and slicking up his magnificent cock before pressing it lightly, _teasingly_, against Grantaire's entrance…

Grantaire was close now and he added a second finger, stretching himself and sinking gladly into the burning sensation it produced, imagining Enjolras pushing inside him, insisting, demanding…

Enjolras would push in harshly, giving Grantaire only just enough time to adjust before pulling out and thrusting back in again savagely, making Grantaire's knees almost buckle as he was slammed bodily into the door, unable to resist the brute force of Enjolras' fucking. He would reach around with those same filthy fingers that had prepared the artist and grab his leaking cock, pumping him in time with his quick, deep thrusts and all the while whispering into Grantaire's ear, you're mine, you belong to me, I'm going to make you scream my name _and you're going to love it_, making the artist whimper and groan as he was fucked into oblivion in a public toilet.

Grantaire came into his fist with a string of curse words broken only by a long groaning rendition of Enjolras' name. He fell back onto the bed panting, his hand covered in his seed and his face flushed with the vividness of the fantasy. His breathing had only just levelled out when he heard a scraping at the front door, which indicated that Éponine was drunkenly trying to sink her key into the lock.

"Oh _fuck_," he swore, and scrambled to get himself cleaned off and redressed before she could walk in and make him sleep on the couch for jerking off in their shared bed again.


	4. Desperate Desires & Unadmirable Plans

Over the next few weeks the two disparate groups found themselves amalgamating more and more. This was mainly thanks to the unlikely entanglement between Jehan and Montparnasse, but was in no way inhibited by Éponine's rekindled childhood crush on Marius (an old neighbour whom she'd lost contact with when her parents had kicked her out at sixteen) and Grantaire's hopeless and widely known fixation on Enjolras.

Musichetta and Bossuet had both been orbiting between the two groups for years – she in her capacity as Joly's childhood friend, and he as an ex law student and friend of Marius' – and they were thrilled that they no longer had to divide their time between friends. The flatmates (and on-off sex buddies) seemed to be hatching some sort of conspiracy against Joly, who was now often to be found with his head in Musichetta's lap while Bossuet alternated between rubbing her shoulders and stroking the medical student's hair…

Feuilly was showing a hitherto unsuspected flair for European political debate, and was often the subject of jealous looks from Grantaire as the ginger bearded tradesman struck up heated conversations with Enjolras about the state of the EU, its place in the international community, and the failure of its historical precedents.

It was thanks to this newfound camaraderie between two such incongruent groups that Grantaire received his first invitation to a student party (not that a lack of an invitation had ever stopped him from attending them before).

It was a Thursday night at the rundown flat. Éponine had a night off from the club and Grantaire had managed to scrape together a bit of money of his own that week by selling sketches of the city skyline to rich tourists. The pair were celebrating loudly with cheap wine as Montparnasse slept in their shared bedroom. He had knocked on their door four hours previously with a fug of marijuana smoke around him and a jittery conviction that his own flat was under police surveillance and might never be safe again.

Just as Éponine was gigglingly opening the third bottle of the evening, Grantaire's phone beeped with an incoming text message. He wrenched it gracelessly from the pocket of his too-tight jeans and blearily read a message from Musichetta.

CHETTA

Alright R? You and Ép are coming

to the party tomorrow right? Should

be fun, Cosette's place is a mansion xx

Then a second later another beep announced a post-script to the first text:

CHETTA

PS – I'm bringing the booze xx

Grantaire read both texts aloud to Éponine then said, "So we're going right?"

Éponine looked torn; there was a bit of one-sided tension between her and Cosette, Marius' beautiful and beloved girlfriend, but then again there was rarely a party held anywhere in the city that she didn't appear at…

"Come on," wheedled Grantaire, "Marius might get drunk enough to play spin the bottle with you!"

Éponine huffed, "And maybe Enjolras will finally realise that you're only doing that free design work to get into his pants!"

"A man can dream," Grantaire grinned, and Éponine couldn't help but smile back.

"We're lost causes aren't we?" she sighed.

"Yep. So let's go to this party, get wasted on 'Chetta's good booze, cause a scene, then come home and cry ourselves to sleep in each other's arms."

"How pathetic. Sounds like fun."

"What sounds like fun?" came a gravelly voice.

"You feeling alright 'Parnasse?" Éponine sniggered, as the dandy emerged from the hallway looking distinctly worse for wear. His usually well-coiffed hair was hanging in black threads around his sallow face, his voice was hoarse, and the creases in his clothing mirrored the bags under his dark eyes.

"I'm fine, just greened out. Happens to the best of us," he shrugged, helping himself to a beer from the ice-filled cool box that had replaced their broken fridge months before, "What fun are we having tonight then?"

"Tomorrow night," corrected Grantaire, "House party at Cosette's dad's house. 'Chetta's brining the booze and apparently the place is a bona fide mansion."

Grantaire knew that Montparnasse's nimble fingers couldn't resist the allure of a posh house.

"Sounds swell, I'm there," he agreed, drinking and texting on his almost-certainly-stolen iphone as he did so. A moment later the device vibrated and a smile curled his cracked lips as he added, "And so's Jehan. I'll get us some gear sorted if you two chip in."

As Grantaire followed Bahorel's bulk down the hallway crowded with gyrating students, he found himself suddenly and unexpectedly being kissed by a person unknown, their lips sloppily pressing half onto his mouth and half onto his stubbled cheek as he stumbled blindly back into a wall of partygoers in surprise at the sudden encounter.

Pulling away with more than a little indignation, Grantaire immediately softened at the sight of Éponine, laughing merrily with her pupils blown wide.

_Typical_.

She was always like this when she was high; horny and extravagant with her affections. She had one arm slung around Jehan's slim waist and the other grasping firmly to Montparnasse's belt as he pulled his two blissful acolytes through the crowd. The poet was giggling softly, clearly stoned already but not coked up like Éponine and Montparnasse, both of whose movements were as restless and jerky as Jehan's were dreamy and slow. Montparnasse's strong jaw was working ceaselessly and his pupils were even wider than Éponine's, giving his normally dark eyes an almost ethereal look of drugged lust.

"Have fun, Ép," Grantaire whispered cheekily as she laughed and kissed him again, briefly this time, and on the cheek. He knew she would be safe and well looked after by Montparnasse and Jehan, and so he left in search of his own fun. What the artist didn't notice was Enjolras' look from across the crowded hallway, a look that widened at the sight of Éponine's lips crushing sloppily against Grantaire's then immediately turned away, the usually cool gaze hot.

Grantaire was almost jealous of Éponine's luck; Montparnasse was an incredibly good-looking guy who always knew exactly what he wanted and how to go about getting it; he also had legendarily nimble fingers. Jehan was a pretty little thing as well, with his sandy-blonde hair and freckled nose, and he was rumoured to be just as generous in bed as he was in every other aspect of his life…

The warm arousal that began to coil in Grantaire's stomach as he imagined the threesome that would soon be taking place was quickly replaced by a stab of guilt as he caught sight of Enjolras across the room in earnest conversation with Combeferre. This was followed by an almost nauseating surge of self-disgust.

Having been separated from Bahorel in the throng of party people, Grantaire made his way to the nearest exit and lit up a lonely cigarette in the garden.

As soon as the intoxicated trio managed to find an unoccupied bedroom in the multi-storey mansion, Montparnasse detached Éponine's grasping fingers from his belt, locked the door, and proceeded to the nearest table to start racking up lines with the singular determination of a cokehead.

Éponine leaned back against the closed door, clutching Jehan closer to herself as if to compensate for the loss of Montparnasse, her restless fingers writhing in the soft, sandy curls of the literature student as her wide, bright eyes darted around the half-lit room.

Jehan leaned into her touch, his eyes closed as he emitted small, happy whimpering noises and occasionally planted chaste kisses on Éponine's throat and shoulder. Montparnasse meanwhile had greedily huffed up two long lines of coke in quick succession and was now taking shuddery breaths. He had left one smaller line and the half-full baggie on the table, and as he approached the entwined pair he gently prised Éponine from his boyfriend and pushed her in the direction of the powder. Éponine went willingly enough, her jaw clenched in a frozen grin.

Jehan blearily opened his red-rimmed eyes at the loss of her touch and saw Montparnasse looming over him, eyes as dark as the poet's were bloodshot. The dandy grinned wolfishly, his huge pupils appearing at once lustful and nightmarish, before he roughly dragged one hand through Jehan's fair hair and shoved the smaller boy back against the wall, holding him there with his own lithe body.

Before the stoned student's mind had time to process the movement, Montparnasse was taking his lips in a searing, bruising kiss, more teeth than tenderness, more possessiveness than passion. Jehan submitted gladly, always happy to allow Montparnasse to take whatever pleasure he wanted, and he heard himself groaning hoarsely as the older boy roughly pinned his wrists above his head with one strong hand, the other still knotted in his hair with painful, controlling tightness.

Suddenly the hot pressure of Montparnasse's body against his own eased, and Jehan again heard himself make a high pitched keening noise as Montparnasse's possessive mouth left his, dragging at the poet's lower lip with his teeth before releasing him entirely.

The reason for Montparnasse's withdrawal quickly became apparent when Jehan opened his smoke-reddened eyes and saw Éponine looking dishevelled and smiling slyly as she rested one hand lightly on Montparnasse's hip and leaned in slowly to kiss and nip down Jehan's throat. As the moaning student tried to clear his mind enough to consider this new development, Montparnasse kept him pinioned against the wall, the taller boy almost panting from the heady cocktail of arousal and narcotics.

Grantaire felt better sitting in the garden, the warm summer air relieved by a light breeze that ruffled his unruly curls as the pounding house music from inside drifted, diluted, through the night. He was just flicking the butt of his second cigarette into a nearby water feature when a noise behind him alerted the daydreaming artist to another presence on the manicured lawns.

"You shouldn't smoke so much," said Enjolras' voice, and Grantaire turned to see the law student gazing down at him as though he'd been conjured by Grantaire's thoughts alone, his golden hair brushed with silver in the moonlight. He was wearing a fitted red, white, and black checked shirt and his long legs were flattered by black skinny jeans. On his feet were practical military-style boots. Best of all he was holding two beers, one of which he offered to Grantaire.

"Thanks," said Grantaire as he lit up another smoke with a grin at Enjolras' raised eyebrow.

"What are you doing alone out here anyway?" the law student asked, keeping the phrase, '_Why aren't you with your girlfriend?_' hanging on the tip of his tongue.

Grantaire shrugged, "Don't like house music," and he exhaled a lungful of smoke and took a swig from his beer.

"Me neither," admitted Enjolras as he seated himself beside the artist on the grass and took a much more restrained sip from his own bottle.

"So you're not a get-drunk-and-dance kind of guy then?" asked Grantaire with an expression of mock surprise.

"A world of no!" laughed Enjolras, "To be honest, house parties in general aren't really my scene… I'm not good with crowds."

It was Grantaire's turn to raise an eyebrow as he asked slowly, "_You're_ not good with crowds?" This coming from the man who never hesitated to get up on his soapbox in front of any number of people, the man who frequently harangued passersby about their political leanings, the man who could be found balancing on table tops in bars more often than Éponine, _who was paid to_.

"Okay," Enjolras smiled self-deprecatingly, "I'm not good with sweaty, drunken, gyrating crowds."

Grantaire laughed, "Then why are you here?"

Enjolras caught Grantaire's eye as the artist spoke, and the silence that passed for a moment was at once electrifying and terrifying. Clear blue eyes broke the gaze first and murmured, "For my friends."

Grantaire was already drunk enough to easily convince himself that whatever he thought he had seen in those infinite seconds of eye contact – the serious look in Enjolras' eyes, the weight of something unsaid teetering at the precipice of revelation – it was nothing. Imagination. Wishful thinking. And he knew from long experience that eventually his heart would pay for the foolishness of his mind, so he raised the bottle to his lips again and took a deep draught of beer.

They drank in silence for a few minutes, Grantaire finishing his drink first and dragging slowly on his cigarette instead as the music and screams of laughter from the party drifted out to them on the summer breeze.

Finally Enjolras asked, "Are you still willing to do some design work for me?"

"For you?" Grantaire asked with a mocking grin, behind which hid his heart beating in double time, "_Anything_."

"Us. I meant for us, the group," amended Enjolras.

"Ah _oui_, Les Amis d'ABC!"

Grantaire had laughed at the pretentiousness and the bad punning the first time he had heard the title of Enjolras' band of student revolutionaries, but privately he quite liked the wit behind it, and suspected French-speaking Jehan with his literary flair had originated it.

The artist was fond of bold, effeminate Jehan, as he was fond of all his newfound university friends, though not in the same fierce, painful way that he was fond of the impossibly handsome law student now looking questioningly at him with clear blue eyes – eyes much clearer than Grantaire's own murky, smoke-reddened eyes had ever been, eyes that betrayed no purple-grey hint of the late nights and early mornings that they endured, eyes like -

"Grantaire, are you ok? How much have you had to drink?"

"Yes!" cried Grantaire, jerking out of his fantasy of mixing the perfect colour paint for those cruelly perceptive blue eyes.

"What?"

"Yes. Design work, I'm on it. What sort of thing are you after?"

"Oh, um…" Enjolras still looked suspicious of Grantaire's level of inebriation, but he explained, "What we badly need right now is something eye-catching, something that can be put up around the campus – or even the whole city – images to grab attention, draw people in, make them think, make them want to create change."

"So poster design, yeah?" clarified Grantaire, "What kind of images are we talking about?"

"Something shocking."

Grantaire grinned, "Shocking I can work with. Give me some more specifics – Animal rights? Votes for women? Save the rainforest? Gay marriage? What about all four - the enfranchisement of gay, forest-dwelling animals?"

Enjolras scowled at Grantaire's flippancy.

"Actually at the moment we're working to expose police brutality, and police corruption as a wider issue. You should see what they get away with at some protests, it's fucking disgusting- "

It was the first time Grantaire had ever heard Enjolras swear, and the effect was almost visceral, like hearing a curse word for the first time as very young child and somehow instinctively feeling the power behind the taboo. When Enjolras spoke his words had a power and meaning that was lacking in other peoples' speech, and when he swore it was with an intensity that other people lacked; he didn't _need_ to swear when he could use ordinary words to such effect…

Grantaire caught himself staring again, but luckily Enjolras was still engrossed in his impassioned monologue about police use of unnecessary force against peaceful protesters.

"Like what happened to you."

"Sorry, what?" Enjolras seemed momentarily blindsided by Grantaire's allusion to the recent scuffle with police which had left his otherwise flawless face marred by a small pink scar over his left eyebrow.

"Oh," comprehension dawned, and long, clever fingers (_scholar's hands_, Grantaire thought, _uncallused and soft skinned_; Grantaire had never had soft hands and he momentarily wondered what those fingers would feel like wrapped around his cock…) reached up to brush the scar absently for a moment before Enjolras continued imperiously, "Well that doesn't matter, it's not me I'm concerned about. In the bigger picture I don't matter at all, it's really a question of- "

"You do matter," blurted Grantaire, then immediately wished for the ground to swallow him up as he blundered on in an attempt to cover up his traitorous, drunken mouth, "I mean, what _happened_ to you matters… Your stance as a victim of police brutality is stronger than… than that of a detached observer. You can use it to your advantage and… and… I dunno, sue for damages?" he finished lamely, staring at the ground.

Enjolras was quiet, but when Grantaire looked up there was a gleam in those captivating eyes that spoke of formulating plans and strategies…

"So you'll do it then?" asked Enjolras, turning those shining eyes on Grantaire and unexpectedly clasping one callused hand in his own soft ones.

There in the moonlight, with those bright, earnest eyes turned to him, the alcohol singing in his veins, and his hand grasping Enjolras', Grantaire would have consented to _anything_ – agreeing to visit Enjolras at home one evening later that week was the least he would have done.

Éponine became bolder with her attentions once it was clear both that Montparnasse was permitting her to touch his lover, and that Jehan was consenting to it. Her kisses became fiercer and she sucked a livid red bruise onto the juncture of the poet's neck and shoulder before bringing her mouth up to his and kissing him sweetly, her tongue sliding over his swollen lower lip to beg entry, which was instantly permitted.

Her hot, impatient hands ran beneath his shirt and up and down his bare sides, causing the restrained poet to writhe and gasp around their kiss as his boyfriend looked on with a hungry smirk, criminal fingers intertwined with long scholar's digits.

Éponine was pressed up against Jehan now, her body soft where Montparnasse's was firm, but the way she was moving against him, groaning and kissing him hungrily, produced the same effect on his body; Jehan was vaguely surprised by this as he had never been with a girl before and the thought of it had barely ever crossed his mind, yet here he was enjoying her caresses and suddenly curious as to how she would feel on top of him, around him…

Montparnasse finally released Jehan's hands from above his head and they flew to Éponine, entwining themselves in her long, dark hair and running experimentally over the unfamiliar curves of her hips and chest, so different from every other body he'd ever touched…

Meanwhile the dandy stood back, happy to let his lovers play; he was more turned on by their semi-innocent groping than he was capable of articulating, but the sheer amount of narcotics in his body was playing havoc with his circulatory system and not allowing him an erection, despite the sudden loss of Jehan's shirt and the little mewling groans of Éponine as the student mapped his way along her body in bites and kisses.

Montparnasse retired to the enormous bed, where he lit a cigarette and slouched against the headboard, lazily palming himself through his tight jeans as he watched his boyfriend and his childhood sweetheart devour each other in a drug-fuelled haze of lust and lost co-ordination.

"Take off your dress," whispered Jehan throatily, and Montparnasse was surprised at his little one giving orders so readily.

Éponine complied at once and Jehan covered her with caresses, his mouth and hands moving eagerly over her darkly tanned skin as he maintained a breathy running commentary;

"I can't find a word for it… The way your skin feels hot and cold at once when I kiss it… I want to write sonnets across your shoulders… No! Sagas! Epic poems about love and war, and I would cover you in words like… iridescence… ampersand… effervescing… Ohhhh- "

Jehan had dropped to his knees before Éponine to kiss her jutting hip bones, and Éponine had wound one hand in his curls and tugged; Montparnasse knew from experience how much Jehan liked that, and his boyfriend's appreciative groan sent a bolt of heat into the pit of his stomach. However, he also knew what Éponine liked…

"Lick her," he commanded from the bed, his voice husky with desire. The sudden instruction made both Éponine and Jehan jump; they had been so caught up in themselves that they had almost forgotten he was there with them.

Jehan started giggling, "I don't know how!"

"Try," Éponine encouraged him, eyes dark and intoxicated with lust.

Jehan turned wide, red-rimmed eyes on Montparnasse, who nodded once in confirmation. Then the poet carefully lowered his face to Éponine's crotch, the unfamiliar scent of woman making him pause for a moment. Beginning at the juncture of her closed thighs, he licked a long, slow stripe up the front of her knickers, making the girl sigh and shiver.

Jehan looked up quizzically, searching for approval, and when he met Éponine's dark eyes – pupils dilated – he knew that he must at least be on the right track. As if to reassure him, Éponine wound her fingers tightly into the poet's fair hair and guided his face gently back to her mound.

Jehan repeated his action, a long, sensuous stroke of his tongue along the soft, thin material of Éponine's knickers, and he inhaled her scent greedily; it was stronger than he was used to but not unpleasant. A lighter smell than Montparnasse's musk, tinged with soapy florals, and the underlying tang of salt that seemed to be common to both sexes.

Éponine tugged gently on his hair, her eyes now closed, but Montparnasse's eyes were open and he was watching the scene intently, still languidly stroking himself and dragging on a cigarette. These were the only indications that Jehan needed to tell him that he was doing alright.

The poet raised a delicate hand, and with one finger he lightly traced along the line his tongue had followed, making Éponine sigh again and shift her thin hips towards him. Emboldened, Jehan pulled the knickers to one side and experimentally dipped the very tip of one digit inside. The intellectual part of his mind was aware that women got wet when they were aroused, but the instinctive, animal part – the part now guiding him – almost recoiled in surprise at the hitherto unprecedented advent of self-lubrication. It was surprising, but not unwelcome, and certainly something to be further explored…

The probing fingertip withdrew and held aside the damp, obstructive material as it was replaced by Jehan's exploratory tongue, stroking gently along Éponine's wetness with virgin hesitation before plunging inside her.

Éponine's quiet sighs of pleasure became a long, loud groan as Jehan began enthusiastically fucking her with his tongue, learning her taste and shape, burying his face in her hot cunt as he experimented with a medium entirely new to him and almost unbearably stimulating in his intoxicated state.

The unconscious noises Jehan was eliciting from Éponine made Montparnasse sit up straighter on the bed, his cigarette carelessly stubbed out on the bedside table and his jeans now unbuttoned as he continued to touch himself.

Jehan was getting impatient with the constraints to his curiosity provided by the knickers, and with Éponine's help he eagerly divested her of the offending material.

Éponine was now bracing her back against the wall, her stimulated brain almost overcome by desire. Jehan moved his tongue cautiously to her clitoris, again unsure of exactly what to do, and he experimented with different licks and sucks until her found what made Éponine groan and writhe and twist her fingers tighter in his hair. As he sucked lightly on her clit, flicking his tongue over it every so often to make her almost shriek, he pushed two fingers into her dripping cunt, marvelling at the way her body accommodated the intrusion so easily, so wetly. As he sucked and thrust his fingers in and out of her, Éponine's breathing grew more ragged and she began to moan out broken instructions;

"Yes, oh god, Jehan, _yes!_ Like that, oh fuck, harder! Don't stop! Oh my god yes, I'm going to- I'm close, I'm- "

"No," commanded Montparnasse's rough voice, and Jehan froze as Éponine whimpered needfully and clenched around his buried fingers.

"No one's coming yet," continued Montparnasse huskily, his complete authority in the bedroom going unquestioned by his dishevelled disciples.

"Come here, both of you," the tone of command sent shivers down both Jehan and Éponine's spines and they wordlessly obeyed. Without needing further instruction, Éponine shed her bra and Jehan dropped his trousers and kicked off his shoes, both of them arriving at the bed fully naked and more than ready to do whatever Montparnasse asked of them.

Montparnasse smirked at the wantonness of his two lovers; Jehan's fair hair was rumpled where Éponine's fingers had been tangled in it, and his lips were red and shining with the girl's juices. Éponine's tanned skin was flushed with her denied orgasm and her hands were clenching and unclenching ceaselessly, her brown eyes almost black with drugged lust.

"Come here," Montparnasse urged again, and they both crawled up the bed and settled at either side of him, Jehan gazing adoringly at his boyfriend while Éponine absently rubbed herself against his denim clad leg, desperate for her release.

"I want to taste her on you, little one," the dandy growled at Jehan as he fisted a hand in the poet's sandy hair tightly enough to make the boy whimper with intermingled pain and pleasure. The literature student was pulled into a bruising kiss which he returned eagerly, his cunt-slicked tongue entwining with Montparnasse's as if to prove that he had followed instructions and been buried in Éponine just a moment before.

"Mmm, good boy," murmured Montparnasse as his other arm wound itself around Éponine's thin shoulders and pulled her tighter against him so she was all but rutting against his leg, leaving a smear of wetness on his jeans.

Montparnasse pulled Éponine's mouth roughly to his own as Jehan hastily unbuttoned the older boy's shirt and began trailing open-mouthed kisses from his throat down his smooth, pale chest. Just as Jehan had descended to the level of Montparnasse's unbuckled belt, the dandy grabbed a fistful of Éponine's hair and yanked her out of their kiss, barking, "Clean that up!"

His sudden harshness made both of his worshippers jump, but Éponine recovered herself first and dived to the stain she had left on his jeans, lathing her tongue across her own juices. Jehan eagerly followed suit once his stoned mind realised what was required of them. Éponine and Jehan's tongues darted across and around one another, and soon they were doing more kissing than cleaning, grasping desperately at one another as Montparnasse watched, smirking, his jeans finally beginning to animate with the first stirrings of his coke-dampened erection.

Gently, he guided the pair back up his body and nudged them towards his crotch; this time it was Jehan who was first to understand and he leapt to drag the jeans from his boyfriend's hips, though not before Montparnasse had managed to produce a bottle of lube from his pocket and place it in readiness on the bedside table. They were soon all three gloriously naked and entwined, two hot mouths teasing and tonguing at Montparnasse' stubborn, half-hard cock as he leaned back luxuriously against the headboard and lit another cigarette.

Montparnasse was anything but embarrassed by his lack of hardness, having experienced similar dysfunction many times before after his habitual drug binges, and being well aware that the effects were impermanent. He was happy to let his lovers entertain themselves for a while and then if he was able to join in later he would. If not, there was plenty of fun to be had guiding Jehan through his first heterosexual experience, and he would always have the memories to fall back on when his cock was in a more cooperative mood…

"Mmm good, that's good," Montparnasse wasn't exactly sure who he was praising, but both of his lovers seemed to take the encouragement to heart, redoubling their oral efforts. Jehan was gently massaging his balls with fingers and tongue, every so often pressing down on his perineum and making his prostate tingle. Éponine was licking languorous strokes up his half-hard cock, then taking the sensitive head into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it as she sucked lightly.

They soon had Montparnasse groaning, despite his semi-limpid state. He had one hand fisted in each of his lovers' hair, cigarette dangling from his lips as each groan released an exhalation of smoke that hung over the scene of debauchery like the pall of a hellfire.

Montparnasse's lack of obvious physical arousal was in stark contrast to Jehan and Éponine, both of whom seemed to be in states of rapturous near-orgasm. Jehan's cock was heavy and flushed, leaking pre-come obscenely over the pristine sheets of the bed. Éponine's chest was heaving as she sucked Montparnasse tirelessly, her cunt wet and ready…

"Éponine," called Montparnasse through a haze of smoke and lust, "Would you like Jehan to fuck you?"

Éponine was almost trembling with need as she nodded, her huge eyes trained on Montparnasse and her lips still wrapped around his cock.

Jehan halted his own attentions to his boyfriend's cock and gazed curiously at Montparnasse, though his own member twitched eagerly in expectation.

"Well go on then my love, _fuck her_," instructed Montparnasse with a filthy smile at his boyfriend. The dandy was well aware that Jehan was used to being on the receiving end of sex, though the student had admitted to topping on a handful of previous occasions with other partners, all of whom had been male.

Now Éponine was staring at Jehan, her hand absently having taken over the work that her mouth had left on Montparnasse's cock.

Still smirking, Montparnasse manoeuvred her so that she was straddling him on all fours, her flushed face inches from his as he blew a smoke ring that made her cough and blink confusedly.

Jehan moved behind her and rested his delicate hands on her hips. She whimpered, "_Please_," in a voice that made both boys shiver, and Jehan gave her cunt another experimental lick, his tongue tracing all the way from her clit, across her wet folds, down to the hole that he was most familiar with, making her shudder and groan, her breath hot on Montparnasse's smiling face.

As Jehan continued mapping her with his tongue and hands – sliding first one, then two fingers inside her – Montparnasse withdrew a joint from behind his ear, lit it, inhaled deeply, then pressed his mouth onto Éponine's and exhaled the intoxicating smoke into her. The girl groaned into his mouth as she swallowed the cloud, and the dandy felt his dormant cock beginning to stir more insistently.

Jehan was still teasing Éponine with his fingers, but he was looking at Montparnasse. When the criminal's dark eyes caught his, the poet all but whimpered, "May I?"

"Well?" Montparnasse addressed Éponine, who was panting, her head spinning from the smoke, and she stammered hazily, "_Pl-please_."

Montparnasse nodded to Jehan.

Jehan pushed into Éponine and she gasped aloud and pushed herself back onto him, suddenly animated as she yelped, "Yes! Fuck!"

Jehan was almost taken aback by how wet she was, how ready she was; unlubricated sex was new territory for him. But as she shrieked she clenched her muscles around him and he promptly forgot how to think, or do anything other than moan and push himself into her again and again.

Montparnasse could feel a definite mounting pressure between his legs now as his cock grew heavy and thick. He began stroking himself as he watched Éponine close her eyes and toss her head like an animal while Jehan thrust in and out of her gasping, his eyes round and wide as if trying to take in every moment of this new experience. But Montparnasse's little lover needed more than this to reach his climax, and now that his body had caught up with his circumstances, the dandy was well placed to do something about it.

Taking one last toke, Montparnasse chipped out the half-finished joint and set it on the bedside table before placing a steadying hand on each of Éponine's quaking shoulders; the effect was immediate, her reddened eyes shot open wide and her body went rigid. Jehan, even in his state of intense arousal and intoxication, was still naturally sensitive enough to pick up on this sudden shift, and he withdrew himself quickly, thinking that he may have hurt the girl.

"What- " began the stoned poet.

"Shh," interrupted Montparnasse with a finger to his full lips, "We're just gonna mix things up a little…"

Montparnasse's arousal was now evident, and Éponine obligingly climbed off him, allowing him to get up and manipulate his lovers as he wanted them.

"You, here," he instructed Éponine, lying her down flat on her back with her head at the end of the bed. Her limbs seemed to give way weakly, and she sank down onto the sheets, her long hair splaying darkly across the white linen, her breath short with anticipation. One hand strayed to her clit and began rubbing small circles over it, making herself writhe under Montparnasse's approving glance, "Good girl, keep that up."

"And you my love, _here_," he positioned Jehan on his hands and knees over Éponine, facing in the opposite direction, the poet's cock nudging her mouth as she squirmed wantonly beneath them.

Montparnasse had considered fucking Éponine himself, but then decided that it would be more fun to make Jehan finish what he had started – the disconcerted look on that sweet, freckled face when presented with a wet cunt was too delicious to ignore. What he refused to admit to himself was that ever since meeting Jehan, the very idea of fucking anyone else – male or female – had been repugnant.

"And I get the very best seat in the house," he purred smugly, kneeling behind Jehan (careful not to hurt Éponine beneath him), and slapping his boyfriend sharply on the arse.

"You know what to do," he encouraged with another sharp smack that made Jehan gasp. The poet leaned down and sank his mouth over Éponine immediately, making her gasp in turn then take his leaking cock into her own mouth without a second's hesitation.

Montparnasse admired his boyfriend for a moment, the young poet bent over in the dandy's favourite position – hands and knees – with his beautiful body on display; the curve of his spine, the light freckles on his shoulders, the fair, sandy hair perfect for softly stroking and harshly pulling, the slim hips so accommodating to Montparnasse's nimble, bruising fingers, the tight little ass that begged to be slapped until it was pink-hot, then fucked raw… Montparnasse had never enjoyed a more perfect lover.

Once he was satisfied by the urgency of the noises coming from his two lovely fuck toys, Montparnasse began to see to his own needs, flicking the cap off the lube with a practiced motion and slicking the first three fingers of his right hand with the cool gel.

With his left hand he struck his whimpering boyfriend's ass hard once more, then leant down to plant a soothing kiss on the reddening skin, before licking a long, obscene stripe down between the quivering ass cheeks and across his entrance, making Jehan groan loudly as he tongued Éponine's clit.

With a wicked grin, Montparnasse spread Jehan's ass cheeks with his left hand and teased him with his right, running one wet fingertip around the boy's hole as Éponine sucked the poet more urgently the closer he pushed her to climax.

Finally, after what seemed like eons to Jehan, Montparnasse sank one finger inside the whimpering boy, making him moan so loudly that the vibration his mouth caused around Éponine's cunt made her yell around his cock. Montparnasse pulled the digit slowly out, then pushed back in a few times, each thrust making Jehan groan wantonly and push back against Montparnasse while Éponine struggled to keep his cock in her mouth.

Montparnasse wound his free hand in Jehan's fair hair and pushed down hard, grinding the boy's face down into Éponine at the same moment as he pushed a second finger inside him. The muffled yelp from Jehan and the gagged moan from Éponine made Montparnasse's cock twitch heavily, and he was suddenly impatient to be inside his boyfriend, feel those hot, tight muscles clench around him and leave it dripping with his seed, marked as his own…

But he had other plans first.

A third finger roughly joined the first two and though Montparnasse knew he must be hurting Jehan a little in his haste, he also knew that the svelte little student liked a bit of rough treatment, and the cant of those slim hips backwards onto Montparnasse's hand confirmed this.

"So fucking tight," muttered Montparnasse as he stretched Jehan without mercy, "I'm gonna fuck you so hard my love. Do you want that? You want me to fuck you so hard you can't walk, can't think about anything but my cock for a week?"

"Oh god yes!" gasped Jehan.

"No talking!" snapped Montparnasse irritably, slapping Jehan's ass hard enough to leave a handprint and making the boy yelp again. He dutifully lowered his mouth back to Éponine's cunt and resumed tonguing her clit as Montparnasse's fingers stretched and curled inside him, carefully reaching just short of that spot that was bound to make him howl.

Finally Montparnasse removed his fingers and Jehan's body shuddered at the loss – he had felt the familiar heat of climax building inside him as Éponine sucked and Montparnasse fucked him, and being denied his release was almost physically painful. His grievance was forgotten a second later however as he felt Montparnasse's cock, slick and hard, nudge his entrance teasingly as strong fingers wrapped around his hips.

The first thrust was ecstasy.

Montparnasse groaned deep in his chest as the tight heat finally grasped him; Jehan shrieked as pleasure and pain exploded through his drugged brain and his body convulsed in confused reaction; Éponine gagged as Jehan unconsciously thrust into her throat, then moaned as his sucking at her clit intensified.

"You want me to fuck you?" crooned Montparnasse to his boyfriend, keeping his entire body perfectly still, though buried to the hilt.

Jehan nodded breathlessly into Éponine.

"Then you must do something for me. I want to hear her scream, you understand? I want you to use that beautiful mouth of yours to make this lovely lady come. I'm not going to fuck you properly until I hear her screaming for me."

Éponine was already close – Jehan's admirable skills in oral sex were apparently gender transferable – and Montparnasse's rough words made her shiver. She could feel Jehan's head being pushed roughly down onto her and the sense of domination thrilled her, both of them submitting wholly to Montparnasse's whims and trying desperately to get each other off for his sake rather than their own.

Jehan's tongue was flicking her clit and driving her almost to the edge; she was sucking him encouragingly, ignoring the soreness in her jaw and using every trick she knew to drag the poet into ecstasy along with her.

Éponine felt her legs begin to tremble, waves of electricity stuttering along every nerve, and with one final flick of his tongue Jehan threw her over the edge, making her yell a string of muffled profanities around the head of his cock, her voice rough from smoke and throat-fucking.

Montparnasse guided Jehan's stuttering hips away from Éponine, allowing her to catch her breath in the aftermath of orgasm. She was floating in a haze of sensation, intoxication, obliteration… She felt the two boys' weight shift from above her as though it was a shift in the tide of her mind; it was only when a gentle hand brushed a strand of sweaty hair from her face that she came back to herself. Opening her eyes she saw Jehan looking down at her, his mouth wet and his eyes wide. His cock still looked achingly hard and it twitched at her curious touch, making Jehan whimper.

"Sit up, darling," purred Montparnasse darkly from behind Jehan.

Éponine rearranged her floating limbs into a sitting position against the headboard; she wanted nothing more than a cigarette and a long sleep. Montparnasse seemed to sense this and nodded to the half-finished joint on the bedside table. Gratefully Éponine took it and lit up with fumbling fingers, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in her lungs.

"Feel better?" Montparnasse asked her as Jehan whimpered again. Éponine now saw that the orchestrator of their debauchery still had his cock buried deeply inside the student, and he was pumping very slowly in and out, while his hands locked the boy's hips in place.

"Mmm," Éponine agreed hazily while exhaling. It was the closest she could manage to proper speech in her current state.

"Doesn't she look happy my love? Now it's your turn," Montparnasse whispered in Jehan's ear without taking his eyes off Éponine, "Your turn to be entirely fucked out."

The words sounded like a threat, and Montparnasse's hand snaked around Jehan's throat, squeezing ever so slightly, as he continued, "We're going to put on a little show…"

Jehan nodded, still whimpering desperately under Montparnasse's tightening grip around his throat.

"Ép's going to watch while I fuck you until you're screaming my name. I'm going to make you cry, make you beg me to let you come, and you're not going to be allowed to come until you prove to me that I'm not wasting my time here, that your tight little ass is better than any gash. Because you're such a good little slut that you could teach _her_ how to take dick, couldn't you? You take it better than anyone I've ever fucked, your sweet little ass just begs for more, begs to be pounded into, to be _ruined_, and you love it, my filthy little darling, you _love_ _it_ when I fuck you so hard you forget your own name…"

"_Please _fuck me," whimpered Jehan hoarsely, looking like he was already on the verge of tears as he desperately clenched around Montparnasse, who refused to budge an inch despite the bolt of heat that his boyfriend's unabashed wantonness shot to his groin.

"Shh," warned Montparnasse darkly, fingers digging into the soft flesh of the poet's delicate throat, "If I wanted to you be using that pretty little mouth of yours any more I would tell you. Keep your lips shut, and keep the taste of her on your tongue as she watches me tear you apart…" He bit savagely into the flesh of Jehan's shoulder as he finished speaking, as though daring the boy to disobey and cry out, but to Jehan's credit he stayed silent, biting his lip hard as his eyes rolled closed in ecstasy.

Montparnasse's first movement in minutes was an excruciatingly slow slide out followed by a brutal thrust back in that was delivered with so much force that Jehan was thrown forwards onto his hands and knees, his boyfriend's strong hand still wrapped around his throat.

Jehan was gasping, tears leaking from his trusting blue eyes, but Éponine continued to smoke lazily, watching in fascination as the boys screwed themselves senseless. The girl wasn't concerned by Montparnasse's roughness, as she knew that that was what the dandy got off on, and judging by the leaking hardness of Jehan's cock and the way he kept soundlessly mouthing, "_Please, please, please_," he got off on it too.

Montparnasse released Jehan's throat and instead grabbed a rough fistful of fair hair, yanking the boy's back into a graceful arch that allowed him to be fucked deeper. He was driving into the boy mercilessly, hips snapping hard and fast as each thrust drew a suppressed gasp or moan from his abused lover. But when Montparnasse finally hit that sweet spot inside him Jehan couldn't contain his mouth any longer, and he shouted, "'Parnasse, 'Parnasse, _fuck_! Please 'Parnasse, please, let me- oh my god!"

Montparnasse slowed his pace but kept his strokes deep, doing his best to hit Jehan's prostate with each thrust, a wicked grin twisting his handsome features at the boy's gasping praise.

"That's right, sing for me little one," rasped Montparnasse, his voice ragged and his eyes glittering as he nudged Jehan closer to the edge.

"'Parnasse, fuck, yes! Fuck me harder, make me yours!"

Éponine impulsively leaned forward without really realising what she was doing and gently blew a plume of smoke into Jehan's open mouth before pressing her lips against his. He kissed her back hungrily, his tongue glad of the distraction from its incoherent babbling of intermingled curses and praise. Jehan moaned loudly into Éponine's mouth as Montparnasse wrapped a slick, loose fist around the poet's throbbing cock.

"You're going to work for this," growled Montparnasse, as he stilled his thrusting hips, "I want you to fuck yourself on me, show me how much you need this."

Jehan began rocking himself backwards in a jerky, desperate rhythm, impaling himself on Montparnasse's cock and then sliding forwards to thrust into the man's fist. His groans grew louder as he built up speed, fucking himself as hard and fast as Montparnasse would, while the man behind him growled low in his chest, drinking in the sight of his boyfriend beneath him working so hard to please.

"Come for me, my sweet," groaned Montparnasse as his cock struck Jehan's sweet spot and the boy cried out. Montparnasse landed one sharp, open-palmed smack on the poet's ass and that was enough to push the boy over the edge; he came with a strangled yell, his orgasm rolling through him in intense waves after being delayed so long. Montparnasse fucked him through it, pounding in savagely as the boy cried out, slamming their bodies together until the keening student's knees buckled and he collapsed onto the bed in a mess of his own spendings, as Éponine peppered his face with light kisses and stroked his sweaty hair off his forehead.

Montparnasse pulled out of his panting lover and with two quick tugs he was coming in thick spurts across Jehan's back, marking the boy as his.

With a shaky groan, Montparnasse lowered himself face down onto the bed beside Jehan and sluggishly accepted the kisses showered on him by Éponine, plucking the smouldering joint from her fingers while her mouth was otherwise occupied.

Jehan's eyes were closed and his breathing had evened out; Montparnasse smiled at his dozing boyfriend, a sated, affectionate smile, and sifted gentle fingers through his fair hair. The dandy had a vague thought that he ought to fetch a damp cloth and clean Jehan up a bit, but after two last pulls on the joint he was fast asleep side by side with Jehan, one pale arm thrown over freckled shoulders, and Éponine curled around his other side like a cat, her tanned limbs wreathed around his waist.


	5. We Can Steal Time

"Someone's at the door!" yelled Courfeyrac around a mouthful of cereal. He was perched on a stool in the kitchen munching a mid-afternoon snack and surrounded by a collection of extremely explicit pornographic magazines that he was flicking idly through. He liked to leave them lying around the house where Marius was sure to find them, open at their smuttiest pages – he called it 'educational'.

"Got it," called Enjolras, striding down the hallway. It was a Sunday afternoon and he was dressed casually in jeans, a loose white t-shirt, and a maroon hoodie, his feet bare and his golden hair looking slightly dishevelled from two days spent locked in his room studying. As usual he was clean-shaven, but as he swept towards the front door Courfeyrac caught a whiff of unusual aftershave.

"Expecting someone special?" asked Enjolras' perceptive flatmate as he inspected a centrefold with slightly more than academic interest; Courfeyrac could always tell when someone had put extra effort into their appearance, it was a sign he had learned to look for in clubs and bars while trawling for potential one night stands.

"Not in the way you're thinking, no. I've invited Grantaire over to review the design work he's been kind enough to do for us."

Courfeyrac sniggered into his cereal and muttered something that sounded like, "I'd review his work any day."

Enjolras opened the door and Grantaire grinned from the threshold.

"About time! If you'd taken any longer to answer I woulda left."

The artist wore tight black skinny jeans and a soft grey t-shirt that was splattered here and there with spots of paint, the short sleeves of which showed off the multicoloured tattoos that swirled over his skin, images and writing meshed together in aesthetically appealing chaos. His dark curls were unruly as ever, in spite of being jammed under a red beanie. Despite the waft of stale cigarettes that followed him in through the door he seemed sober and alert, and Courfeyrac thought he detected a hint of effort in Grantaire's appearance as well…

"Alright Courf?" Grantaire called in greeting.

Courfeyrac mumbled a hello through a mouthful of cereal and an eyeful of cunt.

Enjolras rolled his own eyes.

"I think we'll be more comfortable in my room," the blonde offered, looking anywhere but at the images of writhing bodies arrayed over his kitchen table, "Come through," and he led the way down the hall.

Enjolras' room was small and orderly, but not as assiduously neat as Grantaire had expected; the bookshelves that lined one wall were clearly labelled and sorted into categories – religion, politics, modern history, law – but there were also haphazard stacks of books and papers teetering on every horizontal surface, including parts of the floor. Enjolras lifted one of these precarious columns off his desk and dumped it across his unmade bed (a _double_ bed, despite Combeferre's assertion that the law student was asexual. Maybe he just liked to spread out while he slept?).

"So what have you got for me?" Enjolras asked, with no further preamble.

Grantaire smiled and reached into his bag wordlessly, producing his sketchbook in which he had mocked up a number of designs for Enjolras' various political crusades.

The drawings were good, if he did say so himself. Watercolours of various exaggerated social justice scenes done in a Hogarth-esque style and coloured starkly in red and black. If asked, Grantaire would have said that he chose red because of its viscerally emotive qualities, but in reality he had chosen it after noticing Enjolras' predilection for red clothing; today's maroon hoodie proved it.

Enjolras seated himself at the desk and flicked through the pages in silence, his handsome face giving away not a flicker of his reaction until despite his initial confidence Grantaire felt a knot of panic beginning to tighten in his gut.

"These are… amazing," conceded Enjolras at last, still wearing his poker face and looking at the images rather than at their originator, "You took Hogarth's critical engravings of eighteenth century London as inspiration?"

"Yeah," grinned Grantaire, his panic quickly dissolved by his pleasure at Enjolras' perspicacity.

"Brilliant," murmured Enjolras, seemingly particularly struck by a stylised image of a girl being beaten by police at a protest.

Grantaire was all but glowing with happiness as Enjolras continued to examine his work and make approving remarks. After a few more moments the student looked up and said simply, "I like the colour scheme."

Grantaire's heart could have burst.

"Come on," pouted Courfeyrac as Combeferre continued to pore over his textbooks, "You haven't gotten laid in _ages_… The last time was that sweet blonde who sucked you off in the back of the cinema two months ago, right?"

Combeferre's jaw dropped and he looked up sharply, "How can you _possibly_- "

"She's an old friend," Courfeyrac grinned, "Taught her everything she knows…"

Combeferre couldn't help but smile; he had never been inclined toward other men, and if someone had asked him if he was gay he would have politely denied it, but there was something about Courfeyrac… Well, he was _Courfeyrac_, wasn't he? And it had been a while…

Courfeyrac took Combeferre's contemplative silence as acquiesce, and manoeuvred himself so that he was straddling the philosophy student on his desk chair.

"You've been studying all weekend," Courfeyrac wheedled softly in Combeferre's ear, "Let's have a bit of fun."

Combeferre could feel his self-control slipping away as he put his hands on Courfeyrac's hips and the other boy wriggled closer.

"Enjolras isn't home is he?" Combeferre all but whimpered, as Courfeyrac ground his pelvis down and licked delicately along the shell of his ear.

"Nope," Courfeyrac lied, crossing the fingers of one hand behind his back while the other hand slid beneath Combeferre's t-shirt, teasing bare skin with deft, light touches.

Combeferre closed his eyes and arched his back into the touch; it had been too long. A moment later he felt soft lips pressing lightly against his own. Courfeyrac was clean-shaven today, his cheeks soft like a girl's, and Combeferre preferred him like this. It was a preference that Courfeyrac knew and exploited, taking one of Combeferre's hands and stroking it down his face to emphasise the point.

The kiss deepened slowly, both taking their time and exchanging semi-chaste caresses through fabric before Courfeyrac slid his tongue gently across Combeferre's lower lip, which remained resolutely closed against him while Combeferre smiled playfully against his mouth.

Keeping their lips pressed together, Courfeyrac rocked his hips into Combeferre, eliciting a gentle moan from the man beneath him and the opportunity to slip his tongue slyly into the other's mouth.

Combeferre made a noise somewhere between a growl and a moan, and with one quick movement he pulled off Courfeyrac's shirt, leaving the smaller man's tanned torso bared to him.

"My, my, someone's eager," whispered Courfeyrac cheekily as he toyed with the other student's glasses before removing them and placing them on the desk.

Combeferre laughed as he tweaked a nipple teasingly, "You started it!"

"Fair point," Courfeyrac conceded, sighing happily as Combeferre began planting kisses along his smooth jawline, down his neck, across his shoulders, and down his chest.

The hardness in Combeferre's trousers was pronounced now, straining insistently as the philosopher pulled a nipple into his mouth and sucked sharply, causing Courfeyrac to gasp and buck his hips involuntarily.

"Shall we take this somewhere a little more comfortable?" invited Combeferre, his voice husky and the tenting in his jeans obvious.

Courfeyrac nodded gladly and Combeferre stood, taking the smaller man with him, Courfeyrac's legs wrapped around his waist and his own hands supporting his friend's firm ass. Combeferre walked them over to the bed, deposited Courfeyrac on his back, and then climbed over his bare-chested flatmate.

Courfeyrac was smiling up from his prone position on his back, eyes dark and expectant, and as soon as Combeferre was within reach he slid his hands down the back of the philosophy student's jeans and squeezed his ass encouragingly.

"_Much_ more comfortable," he purred with a grin as Combeferre's body pressed down upon his own, "But I think we'd be even more comfortable without these pesky clothes…"

Combeferre laughed easily and allowed Courfeyrac to pull his polo shirt over his shoulders, revealing a lean, pale chest with freckled shoulders. Courfeyrac would never admit to favouritism of course, but of all their friends he enjoyed casual sex with Combeferre the most. It was always relaxed, carefree, lazy almost, with the Sunday afternoon sunlight glancing in through the window, warming bare skin and highlighting the philosopher's usually mousy hair with threads of gold.

On most days Combeferre was wound almost as tightly as Enjolras, but on days like these – days when he allowed himself to unwind for a few blissful hours – Courfeyrac found him excellent company. He revelled not only in the breathless whispers and groans of pleasure that he was able to draw from his friend, but also in the easy banter that passed between them, the smiles and the laughter, and the understanding that although none of what they were doing meant anything at all, it also meant everything; Combeferre would never do this with any man other than Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac was never so happy to take his time was he was with Combeferre.

Combeferre's fingers were opening Courfeyrac's belt, his movements steady and deliberate, but the shortness of his breath betrayed his eagerness. Courfeyrac's own fingers flew to the button on Combeferre's trousers and tugged it open expertly. In a flash they were both naked, their heavy cocks brushing against one another and causing Courfeyrac to whimper in pleasurable frustration.

The horny law student satisfied himself with wrapping his hand around his friend's cock and stroking deftly, causing Combeferre to squeeze his eyes shut and groan, "Lube?"

"Back pocket," answer Courfeyrac, retaining his teasing grip on Combeferre's cock as the other boy grabbed impatiently for the discarded jeans and sifted through the pockets.

"Turn," the philosopher grunted, having grasped his prize, and Courfeyrac willingly obeyed, getting up on his hands and knees and wiggling his butt in a movement born half from seduction, half from impatience.

He heard the snick of the cap as Combeferre slicked his fingers and felt a thrill of anticipation steal through him; Combeferre was an attentive lover, patient and always thorough to the point of teasing in his preparations, and when one wet finger gently pressed into Courfeyrac the law student sighed with pleasure.

"You okay?" asked Combeferre, his breathing ragged but his movements in and out of his friend measured, careful.

"More, please…" Courfeyrac moaned, pushing himself back onto Combeferre's hand.

The other boy obliged, sliding a second finger in and curling the two digits on each thrust, searching for that sweet spot that would make Courfeyrac yell his pleasure aloud instead of just moaning it quietly.

He found it once, twice, and Courfeyrac encouraged him with a litany of whispered filth as a third finger was added and the stretch burned in the best possible way, "Yes, yes, right there... Oh fuck! Jesus, Mary and Joseph – 'Ferre! Oh god! More, please - give me more! I need your cock, please…"

Combeferre, a careful and thorough lover to the last, made Courfeyrac suffer another few moments of teasing preparation before he could contain himself no longer; he quickly unwrapped a condom and rolled it onto his throbbing cock, then pushed deeply into his friend, gripping the smaller man's hips firmly as he fought to control himself amid the tight heat that enveloped him and threatened to push him over the edge all too soon.

They waited a moment, breathing raggedly together, until Courfeyrac muttered, "Just fuck me already…"

The obscenity of the phrase brought a grin to Combeferre's face and he obeyed the command, thrusting quickly in and out and making Courfeyrac groan loudly.

Enjolras was smiling, "I can't thank you enough for this you know, it really is- "

A sudden, loud groan from the next room diverted the attention of both boys. Perhaps it was a noise of pain – someone might have stubbed their toe? Or a sound of frustration at a homework assignment? Grantaire thought it best not to comment. A momentary frown creased Enjolras' forehead, but he continued speaking as though nothing had interrupted him;

"It really is amazing work, and- "

Another loud groan, and this time the tone of it was unmistakably one of fucking – or more precisely, of one _being_ fucked.

" -And even though we can't offer you any- "

The loudest groan yet broke into Enjolras' speech, followed by a clear shout of, "Oh god, 'Ferre!"

Enjolras' usual composure was beginning to slip, and Grantaire could see a faint pink flush beginning to creep over his smooth cheeks. For his own part Grantaire was also beginning to feel flustered, but he suspected for a different reason to Enjolras… The noises were increasing in volume and frenzy, and a familiar growing heat in the pit of Grantaire's stomach was causing him to shift uncomfortably in his suddenly too-tight jeans.

"Well it sounds like they're having a good time," Grantaire tried to sound nonchalant, amused even, but it came out as awkward. In any other situation he would have laughed it off, maybe started applauding or banging on the wall encouragingly, but not here, not like this, not with _Enjolras_.

The law student had closed his eyes and appeared to be fighting to retain control. After a few calming breaths he turned to look at Grantaire and said, "I'm sorry about this. It's Courfeyrac, he's… incorrigible."

A loud shriek of "Fuck!" coincided with the last word of Enjolras' apology.

"It's fine," Grantaire tried to smile, feeling his face growing hot as he shifted to hide the growing bulge in his trousers while simultaneously trying not drawing attention to it, "Seriously, it happens."

"I know, it's just… undignified. Combeferre should know better. I was– Oh."

Grantaire's entire world fell apart with that one surprised syllable; Enjolras had chanced to look at his boner.

"_Oh_. Um…"

"It's just… the noises…" Grantaire could feel any possibility of his ever speaking to Enjolras again spiralling out of his reach, "I mean, I'm not really- It's just- "

"Are you gay?"

The sudden question blindsided Grantaire, who spluttered, "What? I, um… I have my moments… Does it matter?"

"No! No, it's just… You know, a surprise… I mean, I didn't think you were the sort- "

Now both faces were red, as the noises from the next room continued to increase in pitch and urgency. Grantaire was suddenly feeling more angry than embarrassed; he'd had enough of this in his life, and he hadn't expected it from Mr Social Justice as well.

"Are _you_?" demanded Grantaire combatively.

"Am I what?" returned Enjolras.

"_Gay_?"

"_Me_?" Enjolras' composure fled entirely and he gave Grantaire a stricken look before replying slowly, "I don't… I'm not…"

"It's fine," Grantaire cut him off harshly before he could finish, "I get it. Hell, I'm used to it. I'll see you around."

And the humiliated artist grabbed his sketchbook and strode to the door, slamming it on his way out, leaving Enjolras dumbfounded in his wake.

Combeferre came with a long, drawn out yell, letting himself go completely as he thrust deeply into Courfeyrac twice more.

That was more than enough to push Courfeyrac over the edge himself and he came into his own hand and across the bed sheet, groaning, "'Ferre, oh fuck… 'Ferre, yes!"

Courfeyrac's legs gave out and he slid gracefully down onto the sweat-soaked and come-stained linen, panting heavily as he wiped his sticky hand on the sheets. Combeferre sank down with him and they remained entwined together for a few minutes as their breathing eased and the room grew steadily darker around them.

Combeferre gently pulled out of Courfeyrac, disposed of the condom, and lay down behind him, pulling the smaller man's back into his chest and wrapping his arms fondly around him.

Courfeyrac began absentmindedly stroking the arm that covered his chest before he asked, "'Ferre?"

"Hmm?" replied the student sleepily.

"What do you think of Enjolras' new boyfriend?"

A deep sigh, then, "The one he doesn't know he has?"

Courfeyrac nodded, "_Grantaire_," and his soft hair tickled Combeferre's sweaty chest.

"He seems like an okay guy."

"Good. Because he just heard all that. He's with Enj in his room next door."

Combeferre's arms stiffened uncomfortably around Courfeyrac before a falsely calm voice asked, "They're _what_?"

"Next door."

"Right."

"Think we made a good impression?"

"Courfeyrac, please get out."

"But 'Ferre- "

"Get out!"

Courfeyrac yelped as Combeferre shoved him roughly off the bed, the law student giggling at the angry blush that was colouring the other boy's cheeks.

"_Out!_"

Courfeyrac dodged a swipe from his embarrassed lover and ran laughing into the hallway with the soiled sheet wrapped around his slim hips. He promptly collided with Grantaire, who had exited Enjolras' room at the same moment, and whose usually pale face was flushed a similar shade of pink to Combeferre's. Courfeyrac laughed again at the look of shock that the artist gave him and pranced down the hall to his own bedroom.

Combeferre then emerged, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, and cast a startled, sheepish look at Grantaire before going even redder and stammering out, "That wasn't…"

"Right," agreed Grantaire.

"We're… just friends," murmured the usually eloquent philosopher, finding himself at a loss for words.

"Of course," nodded Grantaire again, fighting back a smile despite himself.

"He's just…" Combeferre trailed off shaking his head absently, and after one final quizzical look from Grantaire he shuffled back to his room muttering to himself.

At that moment Enjolras appeared, still looking a little less composed than he usually did, and called, "Wait, Grantaire! I didn't mean… I just- "

"It's fine," said Grantaire in a firm, quiet voice, "I've heard it all before."

And he let himself out, taking the stairs two at a time and all but running down the street so that Enjolras wouldn't see the sparkle of tears in his tired eyes, or the way his hands shook as he ached for the comfort of a bottle.

Later that night, red eyed and sunk three quarters of the way into a lonely bottle of gin, Grantaire clutched blearily for his vibrating phone in the dark room. It was a text from Enjolras, which he really very definitely did _not_ want to read, but which he opened and read in any case.

ENJOLRAS

I'm sorry if I offended you.

GRANTAIRE

Itts f ine

ENJOLRAS

No it isn't. I hurt your feelings

and embarrassed you and I

didn't mean to sound in any

way homophobic, I was just

surprised by your reaction

to what happened earlier.

Please forgive me?

GRANTAIRE

I am tooo drqunk fo r

tthis. Pls leave me alone

ENJOLRAS

I'm sorry.

GRANTAIRE

Imm queer as hhel

ENJOLRAS

And that's fine.

GRANTAIRE

I meaan it imm sttrait as

a ranbow

ENJOLRAS

Which is fine.

GRANTAIRE

Ur asss id fine

ENJOLRAS

Go to sleep R.


	6. Here I Stand

As usual, Éponine was the last to arrive at the Corinthe, her shift at the club having only ended at midnight. As a result she was woefully behind the others in the drinking stakes. She knew this because firstly, Feuilly was losing badly to Bahorel at a game of pool rather than debating with Enjolras (his new favourite pastime), Bossuet was dancing (clumsily), and Grantaire was all but unconscious in the corner with Joly leaning over him worriedly.

Éponine may have been behind in drinking, but she was certainly ahead in other ways; her constantly working jaw gave her away to Musichetta at the bar who smirked, "Getting the party started without me?"

"Hey 'Chetta," Éponine grinned widely, "Got any free drinks left in you tonight?"

Musichetta was usually able to supply her friends with a few free shots of liquor thanks to the soft spot her manager had for her but tonight she merely grimaced and tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder, "Grantaire cleaned me out in fifteen minutes flat! You need to keep that boy on a leash."

Éponine shrugged and pulled a wad of crumpled, sweaty notes out of her bra, "Double gin and tonic then, hold the ice."

"As you wish, my lady," smiled Musichetta prettily, before mixing the drink and generously sloshing in a triple measure of the spirit as Éponine handed over the cash.

"Cheers," Éponine took the drink greedily, "When's your shift end?"

Musichetta pulled another face, "An hour and a half."

"That sucks. Well, Bossuet is dancing already, what do you wanna bet he'll be spending the night on Joly's sofa with a suspected broken limb?"

"Not without me he won't be!" laughed Musichetta, "Besides, Joly's kind of cute, don't you think?"

Éponine wrinkled her nose, "Not my type."

"No you're right," smirked Musichetta mischievously, "He's not a certain freckle-faced law student…"

They both cast a look to the cluster of seats occupied by their friends, where Marius sat awkwardly beside Cosette on a sofa, his face a picture of smitten devotion while she chatted animatedly to Jehan, paying no attention at all to her boyfriend.

Éponine's stomach lurched at the look on his face, and she forced herself to down half of her drink in one go.

"Whatever," she shot back in response to Musichetta's knowing grin, "I gotta pee. I want another drink waiting for me when I get back."

And she stalked off to the ladies' room, the remains of her gin and tonic sloshing in her glass as her eyes darted restlessly around the bar and her jaw clenched painfully.

Éponine was standing in the middle of the vanity fixing her hair in the mirror when Cosette stumbled in; there was nowhere for her to hide so she was forced to greet the giggling, drunken blonde.

"Hey."

In truth, Éponine had never really spoken to Cosette before. Her distaste for the fashion student was founded solely on the blonde's successful capture of Marius' heart rather than on any actual dispute between them.

"Hey! Éponine, right?"

"Right. And you're Cosette, Marius' new girlfriend."

"And you're like, his oldest friend!"

"I am?" The idea that Marius had mentioned her at all to his new paramour – let alone in such glowing terms! – made Éponine's stomach clench almost as tightly as her jaw.

"Yeah _duh_," Cosette rolled her beautiful blue eyes laughingly, "He talks about you all the time! Says he trusts you more than anyone."

"Really?" Éponine was dumbfounded; did Marius really have so few friends?

Cosette nodded earnestly, slurring, "I wish he liked me half as much as he likes you!"

"But he _loves_ you!" blurted out Éponine, without meaning to.

Cosette smiled coyly with raised eyebrows, "We've been going out for two weeks – do you really think someone can fall in love that fast?"

_Yes!_ Éponine wanted to scream, but she had regained control of her runaway tongue and instead said coolly, "I dunno. Maybe."

Cosette nodded thoughtfully and turned to the mirror to fix her own hair, loosened from its usual side braid by the hours of drinking and dancing. Just as Éponine was about to leave, the blonde girl grabbed her hand and asked in a rush, "Hey can I ask you something? I mean, you're his oldest friend…"

"Sure, I guess," Éponine looked wary as Cosette continued to clasp her hand tightly.

"Marius – is he a virgin?"

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Éponine before she could suppress it, "Hah! I don't know! I guess so… I mean, I've never heard him- He's never talked about- What?"

Cosette was chewing her lip worriedly while running her thumb in small, distracted circles over the back of Éponine's hand.

"I thought he must be. I mean, every time I… _you know_… he just blushes bright pink and suddenly has somewhere else to be."

"Maybe he just isn't ready," said Éponine with uncharacteristic softness.

"But he's a _guy_! And _I'm_ ready! Shouldn't he be too?" pouted Cosette, "It's been months as it is, and I thought _finally_, now I've got a boyfriend I'll have sex on tap, but I'm even more frustrated! The more I try to coax him into it the more he shies away!"

Éponine couldn't believe she was having this conversation. She hoped that it was just the cocaine in her system blurring the lines between reality and illusion and she was actually all alone in the bathroom hallucinating; failing that, all she could ask was that the drink waiting for her at the bar was quadruple strength – she would need it after this…

"Well, what have you tried?" asked Éponine, curious despite herself as Cosette's delicate fingers entwined with her own.

"Just the regular stuff," replied Cosette, her voice suddenly quiet, her blue eyes locked on Éponine's with abrupt intensity.

The two girls were standing very close together, close enough that Éponine could almost count Cosette's long eyelashes, each one perfectly defined with a light coating of mascara, no clumps, not a single one out of place.

"What, _exactly_, have you tried?" asked Éponine, licking her suddenly dry lips in a gesture that was in no way meant to be at all sexual.

"Well, I've tried touching him… Holding hands and that sort of thing," Cosette's thumb began tracing slow circles on Éponine's palm, "And more…"

The blonde took one hesitant step closer to Éponine, so close now that their bodies were almost pressed together.

"I've tried touching _more_ than his hands," the fashion student hesitantly ran her free hand up Éponine's back then let it rest on the darker girl's hip; Éponine shivered, her skin alive with the touch, and she leaned in closer to the blonde.

"What else?" the dancer whispered huskily.

"We've kissed," murmured Cosette, her blue eyes fixed now on Éponine's mouth, "We've kissed _a lot_…"

Suddenly Éponine's lips were captured by Cosette's, the blonde girl pulling her in with the hand on her hip. It was a sweet kiss, it tasted of rosé wine and strawberry lip balm, and Éponine could smell Cosette's floral perfume under the slight musk of sweat that she'd worked up dancing. Éponine's tongue slid out of its own accord, swiping across Cosette's lower lip and making the other girl clutch her closer, moaning quietly as the kiss deepened.

Éponine's hand rose up to wind itself in Cosette's long hair as the student's hand slid sensually up and down her back and sides, tracing light patterns through her thin dress. Their hips were pressed flush together and Éponine groaned as Cosette sucked on her lower lip, the feeling sending a rush of wet heat to her groin.

Cosette's fingers crept hesitantly up Éponine's thigh, inching their way under the short hemline of her dress, and the darker girl ground her hips into Cosette's in encouragement as their tongues continued to dance hungrily.

Just as the blonde's delicate fingertips met Éponine's panty line however, a familiar voice chimed through the bathroom making the two girls leap guiltily apart as it said calmly, "You want to know Marius' problem?"

Jehan had stepped out of one of the cubicles and was now washing his hands at the sink beside them, using far more soap than was strictly necessary and creating a miniature perfumed bubble bath in the basin. He cheerfully gave no sign that he had seen the pair making out a second before.

"_Jehan_!" Cosette accused shrilly, "This is the _girl's_ toilet!"

The epicene boy shrugged, "The boy's smells bad. And no one ever stops me coming in here."

"So what's Marius' problem?" Éponine asked quickly, focussing on the task at hand in a desperate attempt to block out the last few moments of her life.

"Marius has been exposed to too much of Courfeyrac's pornography; he sees sex as being made up of equal parts animal lust and human shame. He can't understand the poetry that two bodies moving as one can create."

Cosette giggled and shot a sly look at Éponine, which the darker girl tried hard to ignore, "So what?"

"So you're coming on too strong. Remember that Marius had barely even spoken to a girl before he started university. To him you're still something strange and exotic, an unknown quantity, possibly fragile and certainly unstable and unpredictable. To his mind whatever is between you two is delicate, breakable, and he's scared that by altering your existing dynamic in any way – by introducing sex, for instance – that he risks destroying what you already have. Marius is in the throes of first love, experiencing the agonies and ecstasies for the very first time, and I think that you pressuring him into sex too soon will drive him entirely out of his mind. You realise that he still announces to all of us every time you hold his hand? We get group texts whenever you kiss him… Marius thinks that you're the delicate one in the relationship, that he needs to look after you, revere you even, but in reality he's the fragile one. He's not going to be ready to start a meaningful sexual relationship with you until he sees the two of you on an even footing."

Cosette seemed overcome with emotion, her pretty face slack with sudden understanding, and there were tears in the corners of her big blue eyes as she hugged Jehan saying, "Oh Jehan, you're so right! I don't know how I didn't see it before! Thank you so much! I've been so selfish, do you think he'll ever forgive me?"

"Darling, I think Marius would forgive you absolutely anything," smiled Jehan brightly, glad to have been of service.

Cosette beamed, seeming to have forgotten her momentary indiscretion with Éponine, and practically bounded out of the bathroom, stumbling a little in her heels as the drink caught up with her.

Éponine crossed her arms, ready for a fight, or for judgement, or anything really; defensive was her default. But none was forthcoming. Jehan simply continued smiling, and murmured, "Ah, young love. _This bud of love by summer's ripening breath / May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet_."

"For someone who goes out with Montparnasse you sure are poetic about shagging," Éponine observed shrewdly, more than aware of the dandy's penchant for rough sex.

Jehan shrugged, "It's what I do."

"How's he doing?" Enjolras asked Joly, trying to sound empirical rather than worried.

"He's fine, just very drunk. I hear from Musichetta that he's been in worse states than this."

Grantaire was unconscious. Or seemingly so. Every few minutes he would stir, open bleary eyes, mutter belligerently, dig weakly in his pocket for cigarettes that never materialised, and then he would fall back again, dead drunk.

"Shouldn't someone take him home?"

"Are you volunteering?" Joly suggested with a smile; it was by now common knowledge that Grantaire had a crush on Enjolras, who bridled every time the subject was broached.

"Facetiousness doesn't suit you," snapped Enjolras, "Have a little care for your patient, _doctor_."

Joly looked hurt and Enjolras immediately regretted his words, spoken out of embarrassment and drink. Whenever anyone had mentioned Grantaire to him recently his temper seemed to flare and all sorts of conflicting emotions came over him in an entirely new and unwelcome manner.

"Sorry," the law student said gently, placing a placating hand on Joly's arm, "It's just… There've been a lot of jokes lately."

"I know," nodded Joly, "But not entirely undeserved. When exactly are you going to speak to him about it?"

Enjolras shook his head, "About what?"

"His feelings. _Your_ feelings..?"

"I have no feelings," Enjolras snapped again, his mouth working faster than his brain.

"Fine," Joly held up his hands in defeat, "That's fine. But maybe you should tell him that."

They both glanced at Grantaire, who had emerged into one of his semi-lucid periods and was struggling to remove his phone from his pocket. Joly rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to get another drink. Can you please take that off him? I don't want him making any drunk calls he might regret."

Enjolras sighed heavily, "Fine. But if you think that by leaving me alone with him you'll induce me into speaking to him about these alleged _feelings_ you're very wrong; I refuse to attempt serious conversation while he is reduced to the state of an infant."

Both boys stood and stepped away in opposite directions, Joly towards the bar where he stayed for a good twenty minutes chatting with Musichetta, and Enjolras towards Grantaire who had found a lighter in his jacket and was clumsily trying to commit arson.

"Grantaire, _no_," commanded Enjolras sternly, removing the lighter from slack fingers and sitting down beside the drunk.

"'Jolras," slurred Grantaire joyfully, "'S good to see you. Have a drink!"

Enjolras was taken slightly aback by Grantaire's friendly greeting of him; they hadn't spoken face to face since the afternoon when Grantaire had left the law student's house in a fury after Enjolras' indiscreet question about his sexuality. He wasn't entirely sure whether or not Grantaire had any recall of the apologetic text messages that had followed that debacle, and he'd been purposely late to the gathering that evening specifically to ensure that by the time of his arrival Grantaire would be too drunk to notice him sneaking in. The law student had steeled himself for vitriol and instead received conviviality.

"I've had a few already, thank you," he said stiffly, trying not to notice as Grantaire slumped against him.

"I've missed you," slurred the artist from somewhere around Enjolras' elbow, and the student tried to suppress the relief he felt as he stared steadfastly at the wall opposite him.

"I've missed you too," he admitted more quietly than was necessary, safe in the knowledge that Grantaire would most certainly not be remembering any of this the next morning.

"Whassat?" Grantaire had grasped Enjolras' left hand and was examining his ring finger, the base of which was covered by a band of lettering.

"A tattoo."

"Whas it say?"

"'Patria'. I had it done when I was fifteen."

"Why?"

"Why do you have all _your_ tattoos?" asked Enjolras, suddenly feeling defensive.

"No, why _there_? What if one day someone wanted to put a ring there?"

Enjolras chuckled, "I have always assumed that to be an impossible eventuality."

"Because you're asexual?"

"Because I'm a fighter, not a lover."

"If you don't like boys I get it," slurred Grantaire, immediately making Enjolras' face go hot as his staring contest with the wall intensified, "Actually if you don't like me I get it. _I_ don't like me, why should you?"

Enjolras felt a tug at his heart and cursed Jehan for every love poem he'd ever recited within earshot of the law student.

"I do like you."

"No you don't. And thas okay," Grantaire hiccoughed and slid further down the sofa so that his head was almost resting in Enjolras' lap.

That internal tug again, harder this time, and Enjolras sighed because now (much to his own annoyance) he was balanced precariously between hoping Grantaire would forget all of this and desperately wanting him to remember it. Before he could reason himself out of making the admission he said quickly, "I like you very much Grantaire. More than I've ever liked another person before."

"More than Combeferre?" Grantaire asked, wide-eyed like a child.

Enjolras at last looked down, smiling tightly at the awestruck expression on the artist's stubbled face, "More than Combeferre."

"But you mean in a friend way right? 'Cause you don't do the messy stuff."

Enjolras made a mental note to never speak to Jehan again. But as he did so the spinning in his head intensified, and it was most assuredly not caused by the alcoholic content of two beers, but rather by confusion at the feelings that were coursing through him as Grantaire continued to stare up at him with wide, appealing eyes.

"I… I don't. I don't usually… Grantaire, _I like you_, can we just leave it at that?"

"Would you kiss me?"

Enjolras answered the drunken question with a strained silence as the war inside his head raged back and forth between intense feeling and firm indifference.

"If you like me we could be kissing friends. If you want," Grantaire was slipping away now, his eyelids drooping back into unconsciousness as he murmured again, "If you want…"

Enjolras looked down at the dozing drunk, the way his wild, dark curls spilled over his face, the bluish circles under his eyes and the paint caught under his fingernails, the rent in one knee of his jeans that was clearly not there for fashion but rather as the result of some past drunken night… And for the first time in his strict, ordered life Enjolras didn't know what to do.


	7. If It Really Matters

A few weeks later Jehan, ever the orchestrator of mass gatherings, conspired with Musichetta to arrange a movie night to celebrate the last week of exams. As no one could refuse Jehan anything, even Enjolras had agreed (with a roll of his eyes) that the celebration could take place in the house shared by himself, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Marius, as it was the biggest space available, and the only one with a TV and more than one sofa.

Joly was the only person who really objected, as he was currently sleeping on one of the hijacked sofas; sharing a smaller flat with quiet little Jehan had seemed like a good idea at the beginning of the year, but after a few months of non-stop allergies triggered by the poet's excessive scatterings of flowers throughout their flat – in vases, in pots, drying between the pages of text books, woven into crowns, and once even stuffed inside the medical student's pillowcase – Joly had been forced to look for alternative accommodation. But despite his protests, the sofa was commandeered and the movie night confirmed.

When Musichetta rang the doorbell of the shared house unexpectedly early Enjolras was locked in his room determined to squeeze in another hour of revision before the party, Courfeyrac was singing loudly (and surprisingly tunefully) in the shower, Combeferre was out stocking up on snack foods, and Marius was picking up Cosette from her last class of the day (read: waiting to walk her the two streets back from the university to his house). That left Joly to answer the door to his old friend, who grinned and raised two large rucksacks which clinked promisingly, "Party time!"

"'Chetta," Joly smiled uncertainly, "Good to see you. That's not _all_ alcohol… Is it?"

"It certainly is!" grinned the curvy barmaid as she walked straight into the kitchen, dumped the bags on the countertop, and began unpacking bottle after bottle after bottle; wine, beer, tequila, vodka, gin, whiskey… And to Joly's horror, two bottles of toxic-green absinthe.

"'Chetta, this really is too much!"

"Nonsense!" trilled the girl, flashing a winning smile at her friend, "We'll all have a few drinks, watch a few films, unwind, and get debauched! That's what end-of-exams parties are for!"

Joly blanched at the word 'debauched'.

"Okay, but it's _not_ an end-of-exams party, it's a celebration of the _last week_ of exams. There are still exams. And I for one would like to still be alive to sit them!"

"Spoil sport," Musichetta pouted, unscrewing the cap from a bottle of cheap rosé wine and pouring herself a large glassful.

"I'm not trying to- I just…"

"What is all this?" came a disapproving voice from behind them. Enjolras had just padded into the kitchen in bare feet, grey sweatpants, and an oversized red t-shirt, yet still he managed to glare intimidating at the small army of bottles arrayed across his kitchen bench.

Luckily, at that moment Jehan pushed open the unlocked front door and bounded joyfully in to defuse the situation.

"So I've got Moulin Rouge, The Notebook, Titanic, Ten Things I Hate About You, every Disney film made since 1937, and… American Psycho. But that one belongs to 'Parnasse."

Even Enjolras cracked a smile at the beaming poet's eccentric DVD collection.

"So what should we start with? Ooh, 'Chetta brought booze!"

Jehan immediately picked up one of the bottles of absinthe and held it up to the light, admiring the bright colour of the liquid.

"Yes, well, thank you, '_Chetta- _", Enjolras began scathingly, but he was interrupted by the simultaneous appearance of Courfeyrac in the kitchen wearing nothing but a towel, and the arrival of Combeferre with his arms weighed down by six heavy-looking carrier bags.

"Give us a hand?" the philosopher called from the threshold, and both Enjolras and the still dripping Courfeyrac moved to help their friend.

"Oh, um… Snap?" said Combeferre sheepishly as he pulled out three nice bottles of red wine and placed them on the bench alongside Musichetta's rather larger offering.

Enjolras made a noise of dissent that was quickly silenced by Courfeyrac popping the lid off a bottle of beer with only his belly button.

Joly noticed the way Musichetta's bright eyes lingered on Courfeyrac and wished that the uninhibited law student had some small amount of shame about showing off his toned, tanned, and dripping wet body in mixed company. Musichetta's looks had not escaped Courfeyrac's notice either, and he flashed her a grin and a suggestive wink. Musichetta, rather than blush, or giggle, or look away, simply returned his smile with a knowing look that sent an inexplicable bolt of heat through Joly's gut and made the medical student turn away.

"Let's get this party started!" proclaimed Courfeyrac, throwing himself down on one of the sofas, still wearing only the loose towel around his slim hips.

"Courfeyrac, _please_," Combeferre began, pinching the bridge of his nose above his glasses in a gesture of resignation.

"Courfeyrac!" came a scandalised voice from the front door, "There are ladies present!"

Marius was clutching a case of beers and clearly trying to block Cosette's view through the doorway as she giggled and pushed past him, waving coquettishly at Courfeyrac as the shameless student laughed from the sofa.

"Now this is just getting _ridiculous_," snapped Enjolras at the newly arrived beers, "It's a movie night, not a symposium! Some of us have exams next week that we would like to pass, and- "

No one was listening to Enjolras' objections. Musichetta was filling her second glass of rosé and pouring a fresh one for Cosette; Marius had returned red-faced from his bedroom with a pair of sweatpants which he threw to Courfeyrac; Joly and Combeferre were assiduously sorting the procured snack foods into cupboards and fridge shelves; and Jehan was texting busily with a grin on his face and a glass of vodka and orange juice in his hand.

By the time Bahorel, Feuilly, and Bossuet stumbled boisterously in a few moments later, followed by an eye-rolling Éponine, the blonde law student had removed himself to his bedroom in a huff. The trio of boys had clearly been drinking already and they applied themselves immediately to the fridgeful of beers, while Éponine closeted herself in a corner of the kitchen with Musichetta, Cosette, Jehan, and a second bottle of rosé.

"I love your shirt Jehan!" said Cosette approvingly, her fashion-conscious eye roving over the student's latest androgynous ensemble.

"Thanks! 'Parnasse got it for me."

The word 'bought' was carefully avoided by Jehan, who was not so in love with his absent boyfriend that he overlooked his bad habits, and who knew better than to try to change them.

Eventually the frantic hubbub of greetings died away into a happy buzz of conversation, as one by one glasses were filled and refilled and people settled down onto the large L-shaped sofa and the two smaller couches that looked onto the wall-mounted flat screen TV.

Joly perched next to Musichetta at the end of the L-sofa's long arm, holding a strongly mixed gin and tonic that she had smilingly pressed into his hand. She was throwing back her fifth glass of wine and was getting decidedly giggly with Jehan on her other side, who no sooner than he had sat down leapt up again to greet Montparnasse, who arrived late wearing a sly smile and withdrew a large bottle of vodka from inside his leather jacket, still with its security tag attached.

The quick-fingered dandy settled down between Musichetta and Éponine with Jehan cradled happily between his outstretched legs. Wordlessly, Montparnasse passed the vodka to Éponine who liberally spiked her glass of wine with the spirit without interrupting her conversation with Cosette to her right. The blonde was sipping a vodka and lemonade as she lounged against Marius in the elbow of the L-shaped sofa, the law student more interested in reading the backs of Jehan's romantic DVDs than in his rapidly warming beer. To Marius' right, on the short arm of the L, had assembled Bahorel, Feuilly, and Bossuet, who seemed to have invented a new drinking game that involved a lot of shouting and the flinging of numerous bottle caps at one another.

One of these projectiles soared over to the battered three-seater wedged beside the massive L-shaped monstrosity and hit Combeferre as he desperately disentangled himself from a hysterically laughing (and still shirtless) Courfeyrac, who was seemingly already drunk enough to be groping his flatmate in public. The third sofa – a loveseat with hardly enough room for two people – had been eschewed by all as it had a limited view of the TV and the worst access to the kitchen for further drinks and snacks.

Various shouts bounced around the room as people took votes on which film to watch first;

"Titanic!"

"Moulin Rouge!"

"Scarface!"

"Bahorel, that isn't one of the options…"

"Fight Club!"

"Bahorel, seriously- "

"Black Hawk Down!"

"Saving Private Ryan!" joined in Éponine laughingly.

"Hardcore gay pornography!" added Courfeyrac as Marius blushed.

"Die Hard!"

"Rambo!"

"Gladiator!"

"American Psycho!"

"Actually, we _do_ have that one…"

"The Notebook!"

"Bambi!"

Eventually a blind vote was arranged by Combeferre and surprisingly The Little Mermaid won by a landslide. Drinks were replenished, bowls of sweets and popcorn were produced, the lights were dimmed, and the movie began to tumultuous applause from the increasingly rowdy boxer, carpenter, and drop out who quickly set to building a replica of King Neptune's underwater castle with their empty beer bottles.

When Enjolras finally emerged from his bedroom looking stern, the rabble in his living room had settled into a relatively peaceful audience, with the exception of Montparnasse who was splitting his time between swigging straight vodka and worrying Jehan's neck with his teeth as the smaller boy tried to swat him away while mouthing along to the lyrics of every song.

Enjolras resignedly took an unopened beer from the forest of bottles on the low table between the sofas and settled himself on the unoccupied loveseat with the obscured view.

By the time the end credits rolled Enjolras was three beers down and was laughingly directing Bossuet's abortive attempts to add battlements ("_Bottle_-ments," the ex-student proudly proclaimed) to the beer bottle castle.

A loud crash rent the room as Bossuet's clumsy hand demolished half of the castle at one blow.

"Oops…"

"All in favour of Bossuet's banishment from Beer-topia?" called Bahorel with a serious look on his bruised and stubbled face.

Enjolras, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac all chimed in, "Aye!"

Bossuet hung his head with a mock sigh of dejection and said, "Fine. I'll just go sit with my _real_ friends!" and he flounced off to the other end of the immense sofa, settling himself next to Joly and Musichetta. Something strange seemed to pass between the dropout and the barmaid as two sets of dark brown eyes caught one another, then suddenly Musichetta stood, walked purposefully to the kitchen, and called back from the doorway, "Joly, sweetie, come help me with some drinks?"

"Sure," smiled the tipsy medical student, his exam anxieties washed away by alcohol as he lurched after Musichetta to the kitchen. She had her back already to him when he entered and was rattling around the empty bottles on the bench top. Upon hearing his footfalls however she spun around, clutching a bottle of tequila, a hastily sliced lime, and a salt shaker.

"Oh no," Joly begged, laughing.

"Oh yes!" she returned with a wicked grin, "_Body shots!_ Lie down here," she pointed to the bench, which she had partially cleared of bottles.

Joly continued laughing, "No way! Do you have any idea how much beer has already been spilled there? It's sticky, it's unhygienic, and I'm not going to spend the rest of the night smelling like a brewery!"

Musichetta rolled her eyes, "Ugh, _fine_, I'll do it," and she hoisted herself onto the counter, finding it quite as sticky as Joly had predicted but not caring as she licked her hand then smeared salt down her neck, placed a wedge of lime in her mouth, and arranged the shot glass in her ample cleavage.

Joly was staring at her slack jawed; of course he was, _everyone_ stared at Musichetta and that was the way she liked it. Like Courfeyrac, she oozed with open sexuality and was shameless about her voluptuous body, all darkly bronzed skin, rounded hips, and a generous bust that earned enough tips to double her weekly pay cheque. Her long hair hung in a waterfall of loose, dark brown waves over her shoulder, perfectly complementing her dusky complexion, and her strapless dress betrayed no tan lines, giving Joly an uncomfortable mental image of her on the beach…

Suddenly the emboldening power of the beers that he had gulped earlier seemed to dissipate, and Joly felt his usual, absurd shyness around his old friend's blatant sexuality.

"Come on, darling," she purred, dark eyes half-lidded and sultry, "One shot won't hurt."

Joly didn't notice Bossuet enter the kitchen behind him as he sank the shot from between Musichetta's breasts and desperately bit down on the lime held between her lips to keep from choking on the torrid liquid.

Just as the second movie was beginning (Ten Things I Hate About You; when Jehan had taken a bathroom break Montparnasse had threatened to knife anyone who voted for another Disney film) there was a knock at the front door, and as Enjolras was closest he was despatched to answer it.

Grantaire stood on the threshold, and he took one look at the beer in Enjolras' hand and grinned, "Sorry I'm late."

"No problem," replied Enjolras, his smile belying his nerves; would Grantaire remember any of what had passed between them at the Corinthe? Stepping back to allow the other boy into the house Enjolras was suddenly very aware of his terribly causal and not entirely clean state of dress. In contrast, Grantaire smelled of aftershave and fresh laundry, and Enjolras caught himself thinking that the artist actually looked better with a bit of stubble, rather than clean-shaven as he was now.

"Unless your favourite movie is The Little Mermaid, in which case you're sadly too late."

Grantaire chuckled, sending a discomfiting flutter into Enjolras' chest.

"I assume 'Chetta brought drinks?"

The flutter turned into an oddly irritated clenching, but as Enjolras was holding a half-empty beer himself he felt unable to make any comment.

"Yeah, in the kitchen."

"Excellent."

Grantaire made a beeline for the kitchen while Enjolras returned to the living room feeling conflicted, something that he seemed to feel a lot around the chain-smoking, borderline alcoholic artist with _beautiful_ cynical eyes.

Grantaire returned from the kitchen a few moments later to a general murmur of greeting, and seeing that the only unoccupied space was beside Enjolras on the loveseat he settled himself there.

Enjolras' eyebrows shot so far up that they were in danger of disappearing entirely into his hairline; Grantaire had decided against easing himself into the drinking with a beer or two, even seemed to have decided against using a glass, as he clutched the neck of a wine bottle and brought it to his lips.

Even more alarming was their sudden proximity. Squeezed together on the too-small two-seater, Grantaire's thigh nestled against Enjolras', and every time the artist lifted the bottle to drink he brushed against the student. The sensation was oddly compelling and unsettling and halfway to arousing, and against his better judgement it drove Enjolras to accept a glass of wine offered to him by Marius.

By the middle of the film Enjolras began to sink under the combined somnambular effects of his heavy workload, lack of sleep, the liquid depressant, and a warm body pressed against his own. He fought to keep his blue eyes open but they seemed to droop of their own accord, and soon the movie's soundtrack became intermingled with the voices of his friends, his professors, his internal monologue, his family… Sound swirled through his head, blurring the divisions between reality and dreamscape, and then he was sleeping deeply, dreamless and peaceful.

Grantaire had been casual with his closeness to Enjolras, but privately each brush of their legs, each bump of their elbows, had thrilled him. He remembered none of the night that was preying so heavily on the student's mind, but he was drinking more quickly and carelessly than he usually would in front of Enjolras just for the excuse of rubbing his arm against the student's shoulder as he raised the bottle to his lips. He had taken Enjolras' silence and lack of attempt to move away as tight-lipped resignation, and he was internally embarrassed by the happiness that such a small concession gave him. But now that the bottle was empty and the movie was finishing Grantaire realised that Enjolras was still unmoving, and he chanced a look at that handsome, impassive face.

To his surprise, Enjolras' clear, blue eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, as his usually proud head lolled back against the sofa, a stray lock of golden hair spilling gracefully across one cheek. His face was tilted towards Grantaire, and without thinking the artist reached up with rough fingers and brushed the hair out of Enjolras' eyes. As soon as he had done it Grantaire snatched his hand back and glanced around the crowded room furtively, blushing as if he had done something much more intimate to the sleeping law student.

Enjolras made a tiny noise in his slumber and unconsciously pressed himself closer into the warmth of Grantaire's body, his head falling softly on the artist's shoulder. Grantaire felt another irrational stab of panic seize him, and again he cast a look around the room; everyone was too busy arguing over which film to watch next to notice the two latecomers cosied up together in the marginalised loveseat.

Once he was sure that they were unobserved, Grantaire became bold enough to nuzzle his face lightly into the waves of Enjolras' blonde hair, unwashed and slightly tangled but still somehow smelling clean and reminding the artist irrevocably of a halo around that pale, sculpted face.

Soon Grantaire's eyelids began to droop as well, and he gladly let himself drift into sleep with a contented smile on his lips. A few hours later when the others began to say their goodbyes and filter out of the living room, the artist's head was still resting on top of Enjolras' and their hands were inexplicably tangled together, one of Enjolras' arms thrown across Grantaire's abdomen in a simple gesture of closeness. Jehan carefully draped a flowery blanket over the sleeping pair and turned off the lights with a happy sigh.

After two more shots had disappeared down the medical student's throat and one each for the barmaid and the dropout, Musichetta grabbed the front of Joly's polo shirt and dragged him with her into the nearest bedroom as Bossuet followed with a grin and closed the door quietly behind them all.

Musichetta was still gripping Joly's shirt as she kissed him passionately, Joly returning the kiss with just as much fervour, his hands buried in the barmaid's long, dark tresses as Bossuet slid himself behind the student, large hands teasing up and down the boy's sides and smiling mouth kissing up and down his pale neck.

Joly writhed happily between the two, pressing himself against Musichetta's soft curves while permitting Bossuet's explorative hands to map his body through his suddenly frustrating clothing. Musichetta's hands were twisting in his mousy hair, then gently cupping his face as she murmured against his lips, "Ah darling, you're so beautiful… We're going to make you feel so good… You deserve to feel good, you sweet little thing."

Bossuet's hands meanwhile were working their way lower, gripping Joly's hips and pulling him back against the black boy's groin, blunt nails scratching at the bare skin revealed by the medical student's rucked up shirt, and once or twice dipping enticingly below the waistband of his jeans.

Joly moaned against Musichetta's lips as she brushed light fingers over the growing bulge in his trousers, and he unconsciously ground himself back against Bossuet, whose own baggy jeans were beginning to tent, and who rolled his hips into Joly with a low groan.

Musichetta broke the kiss but continued petting the student as she whispered, "Such a lovely boy, so sweet, so pretty, you're going to feel so good…" and she smiled at Bossuet, nodded once and they switched places in perfect sync, leaving Joly unattended for less than a second before his mouth was taken by Bossuet's in a rougher, more insistent kiss, and Musichetta was standing behind him, running her hands sensuously over his body, taking special care to brush teasingly over his straining crotch while whispering sultry endearments and promises in his ear.

Gently, her roaming hands began to fiddle with the button on Joly's jeans, while Bossuet held him in a hard kiss, his tongue eagerly pressing into the student's willing mouth as large hands tugged open the top few buttons on the boy's polo shirt and explored the pale skin beneath.

Joly groaned into Bossuet's mouth and rolled his hips back into Musichetta as she smoothly pulled his jeans down, leaving him in only his boxer-briefs; he felt his skin touch bare skin and realised that she had slipped out of her dress and was now naked behind him, her soft, brown skin a bronzed blur in the corner of his eye.

Bossuet grinned and pulled the student's shirt over his head, making Joly gasp as Musichetta dragged her painted fingernails down his freshly bared back, leaving pink marks on the pale skin. Bossuet began to kiss slyly down Joly's neck, placing little nips and licks as he went, while Musichetta stroked the student's responsive cock lightly through his briefs.

"You're going to enjoy this," purred Musichetta hotly in Joly's ear, as Bossuet's kisses descended over the pale boy's torso, "He's very good with his mouth."

Joly shivered with pleasure as Musichetta scraped her nails over his nipples, then pinched them lightly until the nubs were standing out as proudly as his cock, which Bossuet had now reached.

The darker boy had dropped to his knees in front of Joly and was kissing playfully along his thighs, large brown eyes staring up at the groaning medical student with a wicked glint.

The sight of Bossuet on his knees trailing open-mouthed kisses in a teasing path to his throbbing cock made Joly groan and grind back into Musichetta, who took his chin and pulled him into a hungry kiss. Then Bossuet began to mouth at Joly's erection through the briefs, dragging a hot tongue along the thin material and sucking lightly at the head as Joly gasped and bucked into the sensation.

Musichetta began kissing along Joly's neck and back, her fingers still tugging at his nipples and scraping light pink marks down his torso as Bossuet took his time sucking Joly through his underwear, enjoying the gasps and groans coming from the medical student.

"You guys, oh god… Bossuet, please… _please_, just- "

Joly was never one to be terribly vocal in the bedroom. Usually he was a little too shy to articulate exactly what he was feeling or craving, but as Musichetta licked a long, slow stripe from his shoulder to his ear, and Bossuet blew a cool breath onto his boxer-clad cock, the material wet with pre-come and saliva, Joly groaned unashamedly, "Just take me already!"

Both of his seducers laughed delightedly and Bossuet made quick work of removing Joly's underwear, allowing the student's already leaking cock to spring free. Bossuet wrapped a large hand around the organ immediately, guiding the tip into his waiting mouth and swirling his tongue over and around the head, lapping up the droplets of pre-come glistening there.

Musichetta was sucking hotly at the juncture of Joly's neck and shoulder while Bossuet continued to tongue at the sensitive head of his cock, and the medical student's eyes fluttered closed as he lost himself in erotic sensation; the wet urgency around his cock, the hot, sweet touches all over his skin, the humming and groaning that could be coming from any one of them, and the knowledge that he was being so carefully ravished by two terribly attractive and attentive lovers. It was enough to make his head spin, and as Bossuet surged forward and took Joly's full length in his mouth, the student's knees almost buckled and he was only saved by Musichetta's firm grip on his hips and her whisper in his ear, "Shh my sweet, I _told_ you he was good…"

Joly's hands were resting heavily on the back of Bossuet's bald head, and he was trying desperately to stop himself from forcing the other man down further on his cock as the dropout moved up and down in a steady rhythm, sliding his tongue along the underside of the shaft and sucking harder with each thrust.

Joly was groaning loudly now, and when Musichetta's delicate fingers stroked gently across his lower lip it seemed natural to take them into his mouth and try to replicate Bossuet's tongue motions along them. The student was falling into unthinking ecstasy as he fellated Musichetta's fingers - with his mouth occupied and his cock well attended to - so when Musichetta slid one sly, wet finger between his ass cheeks, the shock caused his entire body to convulse then go rigid, and his blissfully closed eyes snapped open.

"'Chetta! What are you doing?" gasped Joly, his voice sounding needier than he had intended it to thanks to a particularly enthusiastic swallow from Bossuet, who managed to lodge Joly's cock entirely in his throat without gagging.

"Relax, darling," soothed Musichetta, running her fingers up and down the crease between his cheeks teasingly, but avoiding the clenched ring of muscle until he was less tense, "I know what I'm doing."

Joly was no virgin with either men or women, but he had never been opened up by a girl before. It seemed perverse, dirty, _wrong_, although it was all of those things in a way that sent a dizzying rush of blood to his groin…

Bossuet pulled away from Joly's cock just long enough to agree with a wink, "It's true, she knows what she's doing," then began toying with Joly's shaft as if it were an obscene lollipop, dragging his lips along the length of it and swirling his tongue around the head.

Joly was still a little unsure, but his body was relaxing again thanks to Bossuet's ministrations, even as he worried vaguely about checking the state of Musichetta's fingernails before allowing her to penetrate him…

A second later all hesitation flew out of his mind as she stroked one slick finger over his entrance and his breath hitched as his hips canted forward, thrusting into Bossuet's mouth as the other boy groaned gladly. She pressed against him with gentle firmness until the muscle accepted the intrusion and she slid inside easily, expertly.

She began to work her finger in and out, curling it as she did so, seeking out that one spot that was sure to make the student relax into her touch. After a few patient moments she found it, making him yelp and assuring Joly once and for all that Musichetta did indeed know what she was doing.

With a final playful suck and an obscene pop, Bossuet let Joly's cock slide from his lips. He stood and quickly stripped off his singlet, revealing a toned chest emblazoned with a tribal tattoo of an eagle with wings outstretched over his pectoral muscles, as well as a handsome collection of bruises and scrapes in varying stages of healing.

His baggy, patched jeans were shucked off just as quickly, and his leaking cock sprang free, unhindered by boxers or briefs. He fumbled in the pocket of his discarded trousers for a moment and came up with lube and two condoms, which he placed on the bedside cabinet as he mounted the bed.

Musichetta withdrew her teasing finger slowly, drawing a whimper out of Joly as she steered him over to the bed, Bossuet watching and stroking himself with a lubricated hand.

Joly shakily lowered himself onto the bed and Musichetta cooed, "Get yourself comfortable sweetheart, let me know when you're ready," as she slicked her fingers more thoroughly with the lube.

Joly obeyed, lying down on his stomach and smiling at the sight of Bossuet slowly pumping himself, the other boy's cock thick and glistening enticingly. Musichetta settled down behind Joly, spreading his legs gently and seating herself between them before massaging his buttocks.

"Are you ready sweetie?"

"Mmm," hummed Joly contentedly, tipping his hips back to allow Musichetta easier access and rubbing his cock against the sheets in delicious friction.

"So precious," murmured Musichetta lovingly before pressing one finger back inside the student, who moaned and pushed back against her hand.

Musichetta quickly added a second slick finger, making Joly groan even louder as she stretched him carefully, teasing him inside and out with fingers and tongue, hooking and pressing her digits until she again managed to scrape across that spot that made him yell with pleasure and jerk his hips back onto her hand. She smiled lazily and continued stroking him with a third finger, building him up until the student was keening with need and rutting desperately against the mattress.

Bossuet too was getting increasingly frustrated as he tugged at himself, watching Joly thrashing about and moaning at the tips of Musichetta's nimble fingers.

Finally Musichetta's hand slid away and as Joly groaned at the sudden emptiness she soothed, "_Now_, my darling, I think you are ready."

The whimpering student did not have to wait long before Bossuet took over where Musichetta had left off, strong hands gripping thin hips and hauling Joly up onto his knees, his back clutched against Bossuet's firm chest as the other boy's cock slid teasingly between his cheeks.

Musichetta was now face to face with the student and she kissed Joly lightly on the lips, allowing him to run grasping hands along her body, pinching at her nipples and scratching down her back as he deepened the kiss with frustrated passion. She soon pulled away however, dark eyes twinkling mischievously as she positioned herself on her hands and knees in front of the student, inciting him in a husky voice, "Come on sweet one, now it's your turn to make _us_ feel good."

Bossuet nudged Joly forward encouragingly, and the student groaned as his throbbing cock rubbed against Musichetta's wet and ready slit. So aroused that he could barely think, Joly moaned as Bossuet's expert hand reached around and slid a condom over his twitching cock. A second crackle of plastic assured the medical student that Bossuet too was sheathed, and without any further preamble he grabbed Musichetta's round hips and pushed deeply into her, gasping at how wet she was, how her muscles clenched around him, how she let out a high pitched mewl of satisfaction and pushed back against him, begging for more.

Joly quickly established a rhythm that made Musichetta's moans fill the room; he was fucking her deep and fast, and she was rubbing herself as he did so.

Bossuet continued to rub against Joly's ass without entering him as the student worked up his pace with Musichetta, but when he could take it no more the ex law student grabbed Joly's thrusting hips and pushed himself inside the other boy, groaning long and low as he did so.

"Fuck!" shouted Joly raggedly, and Musichetta knew from the stutter in the rhythm of his hips that Bossuet had joined in. Joly' thrusts became shallow and jerky as Bossuet eased in and out of him slowly, giving the boy time to adjust, so Musichetta took control and began rocking herself back onto Joly's cock, still touching herself as she took what she needed from the groaning student.

Musichetta had been as good as her word; Joly was well prepared and soon Bossuet was thrusting hard without fear of hurting the student, who was clenching hotly around his cock and forcing Bossuet towards his climax sooner than he would have liked. The dropout's hips snapped arhythmically, slightly clumsily as in everything he did, and he let out a breathless groan of a laugh as he said, "Sorry man, I'm a little out of sync," when Joly's thrusting into Musichetta threw his pattern off somewhat.

"Just shut up and fuck me!" grunted Joly through gritted teeth, trying to distract himself from Musichetta's keening wails and his own ragged panting as he fucked her, and fucked himself back onto Bossuet's cock, his orgasm rushing towards him too soon, _too soon_.

Musichetta was almost screaming now, and Bossuet knew from experience that she was close to the edge, with Joly driving into her and her own hand rubbing her clit frantically. The larger boy grunted as he pushed deeply into the student, hard enough to make him yelp and jerk his hips into Musichetta, who let out a keening shriek and took up a mantra of, "Fuck me, fuck me _harder_, please fuck me…"; Bossuet and Joly both obeyed.

Joly and Musichetta came almost at the same moment, she with a yell of ecstasy and he with a long, low moan. Bossuet snapped his hips into Joly in a quick, punishing rhythm as the boy writhed through his orgasm. The darker boy came with a grunted litany of curse words, buried deep inside his panting, groaning friend, who was in his turn collapsed over Musichetta's shuddering back, as all three caught their breath in ragged gasps.

Somehow, the trio disentangled themselves from one another, the boys disposed of their condoms, and then as if by mutual agreement they curled up again together on the bed and fell promptly asleep, their sweat-slicked bodies providing adequate warmth for one another as they reposed on top of the rumpled bedding.

"I wouldn't wake him," smirked Courfeyrac early the next morning, bleary-eyed and clutching a steaming mug of coffee as a rumpled looking Combeferre entered the kitchen.

"Why not?" asked Combeferre, glancing at Enjolras and Grantaire who were both still asleep and entwined on the loveseat, "He's wasting valuable revision time, and you know how he gets when his schedule is thrown off."

"Believe me, let them sleep. It's a kindness."

"Why?" persisted Combeferre, a sudden feeling of foreboding clutching at his churning stomach as Courfeyrac grinned wickedly.

"Well… Let's just say that last night Enjolras' bed was finally christened."

"What? But he spent the whole night… Oh my god. _Who_?"

"Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta."

Combeferre's jaw dropped.

"I know, right? Lucky boy. I walked in just now and saw them all naked and tangled together. Nearly had to have a wank over them."

"Oh my god Courfeyrac, do you have any idea what Enjolras is going to- No. _No_, I am not dealing with this right now. I'm going back to bed," and with a last panicky glance at the sleeping pair on the loveseat, Combeferre removed himself from the danger zone.

Courfeyrac carefully placed his half-empty mug among the array of empty bottles and followed his friend, saying matter-of-factly, "Good plan, I'll come too. I'm still half hard thinking about the fun Joly must have had last night!"

"There will be no _coming_ in my room," Combeferre glared as Courfeyrac caught up with him in the hallway, "I'm too hungover for this."

"Aw, you say that now," murmured Courfeyrac, pressing the noticeable bulge in his boxer shorts against Combeferre's hip, "But I bet you'll feel better once your dick is halfway down my throat, hmm?"

Combeferre's eyes widened, then squeezed shut again behind his glasses, and he sighed resignedly, "Alright fine, that does sound appealing… But you've got to keep quiet this time, everyone else is still asleep."

"You'll have to make me," goaded Courfeyrac, licking his lips with an obscene grin as he closed the door behind him.


	8. Our Hands Clasped So Tight

Marius had never been a romantic, never been in love, never even really had a crush on anyone before, but Cosette… _Cosette!_ Her entrance into his life had hit him with all the force of destiny, expelling the cynicism from his heart and the very air from his lungs every time he saw her. He was glad that she had made the first move and asked him out a few weeks after they met, because he would never have dared to.

When he was around her he felt light-headed, dizzy, awkwardly-shaped, like he was too big for his own body. His words came out brokenly and his dopey smile was obnoxious, and the entire time he was acutely aware of her goodness, her radiant happiness, her virginal beauty… Moreover he knew that she _wasn't_ a virgin, which only served to make him feel more ill at ease with his own clumsy, cumbersome virginity.

It wasn't that the freckle-faced law student had no sex drive – god no! Just about every time he got home from seeing Cosette he would have a furious and guilt-ridden wank followed more often than not by a bout of angry crying – but he was terrified of doing anything that might upset her. Terrified of the presumption that she would _want_ to have sex with him, terrified of his own inexperience, terrified of anything that might break the fragile bond he was working so hard to build between himself and that beautiful creature who soared above him.

But _god_, the things she did! The way she kissed him, sliding her perfect pink tongue across his lips and into his mouth… The way she touched him, feather-light caresses across his shoulders and back, dancing fingers dipping teasingly beneath clothing as her kisses became more insistent, needier, downright _dirty_. And then he would panic. He would feel his skin growing hot and itchy, the flush on his cheeks spreading to his chest and ears as he tried to think of anything but the horrifyingly fast-growing hardness in his trousers. He would make his excuses and leave Cosette pouting those tempting, kiss-swollen lips as he hastily exited her bedroom, or the lecture theatre, or the Café, or the cinema, or any of the one hundred and sixty-four other locations that Marius had almost come in his trousers just from Cosette's proximity.

Marius was always careful to ensure that they never went to his house, firstly to retain his escape route in case things began to heat up, and secondly because of the handful of times that Cosette _had_ entered the student dwelling, Courfeyrac had embarrassed his lovelorn flatmate so thoroughly that Marius had begged forbidden his flirty friend from ever again speaking to the giggling blonde.

Which was why this afternoon was so unusual.

Firstly, the fledgling couple were at Marius' place (in the law student's _bedroom!_), and secondly they were alone in a house usually populated by no less than four young men, sometimes more.

Tuesday afternoons usually went like this: at 2:30 pm Marius would finish his last lecture and go across the road to the Café Rousseau, where he would order a soy latte for himself and a vanilla latte for Cosette, who would walk in at precisely 3:11 pm (having finished her last lecture at 3:00 pm), and smilingly make her way over to their usual table in the corner, where they would happily remain chatting until 6:00 pm, when Marius would either walk Cosette home or wait with her until Professor Valjean came to pick her up in his surprisingly dilapidated car. Accordingly, Tuesdays were Marius' favourite days of the week.

But today he'd received a text at 2:22 pm that had turned the rising anticipation in his stomach into cold lead.

COSETTE

Can't make this afternoon babe,

sorry. Raincheck for next week? xx

Marius' fingers stuttered miserably as he typed back in what he hoped was a nonchalant way;

MARIUS

No problem, I have coursework

anyway. Are you free Saturday?

COSETTE

No can do, dad's taking us on a

surprise trip up the coast for a

few days. Have a good afternoon xx

Marius slumped back in his seat, no longer counting the minutes until his class ended, merely begging the ether to _please let it be a short trip, please let me see her soon, I'll _die_ if I don't see her!_

To make matters worse he had to walk home alone in the rain; Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan had tickets booked for a movie that Marius had turned down in anticipation of seeing Cosette; Enjolras was tutoring until 8:00 pm in the university library; and Joly was too ill to leave the quarantine zone he had arranged around himself in the small flat he shared with Jehan.

By the time Marius reached his front door, soaked through and with his hair falling wetly into his eyes, he was feeling so utterly dejected that he wanted nothing more than to throw himself down on the sofa and watch reruns of old TV shows until he fell asleep.

Naturally when he entered the empty living room, shrugging his sodden coat off and kicking off his squelching trainers, the smell of Cosette's perfume caught him off guard. He put it down to a malicious imagination and sighed deeply as he flung himself down on the sofa. A second later he sat bolt upright again, cheeks flaming, as a soft and instantly recognisable voice called from down the hall, "Marius? Is that you?"

* * *

GRANTAIRE

We need to talk

It took the artist an entire bottle of wine plus Éponine standing over him menacingly, ready to smack him around the head with said empty bottle, before he could work up the courage to send such an innocuous text message; it did not bode well for how he was going to handle the requested 'talk'.

A reply announced itself with a cheery beep barely seconds later, much to Grantaire's surprise, as he had expected to be kept waiting.

ENJOLRAS

Sure. When & where?

Grantaire looked up at Éponine in an appeal for direction, panic in his green eyes as she pursed her lips sternly at him.

"When..?"

"Now!"

GRANTAIRE

Now? My place?

ENJOLRAS

I'll be there in 10.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

"Stop fussing. You _need_ to do this. If you don't do this you'll never know how he feels, you'll never resolve the tension between the two of you, and I'll never again be able to sleep on a dry fucking pillow."

"Shit. Fuck. Ép, what do I say?"

"How about '_I've been in love with you since the moment we met and provided you're not the homophobic asshole I thought you were can you please fuck me into the mattress'_?"

Grantaire groaned, "Not helping Ép!"

She snatched away the fresh bottle of wine that Grantaire was desperately trying to open and shrugged, "Just tell him you like him. Go from there."

"Oh, uh huh, it's that easy yeah? This is _Enjolras_ we're talking about, he could probably strike me dead with just his eyes, or if that didn't work he could whip up a lynch mob with a few well chosen syllables!"

Éponine merely rolled her eyes in response to Grantaire's histrionics, "Are you seriously still convinced this boy doesn't like you? _Enjolras_ – the one who always drives you home when you're too drunk to stand, the one who begs you to argue harder against him at those dumb student meetings so that he can 'hone his debating skills', the one who answers your drunk dials at four in the morning, _the one who you woke up snuggling with last Sunday_ – and you still don't think he likes you? Take a hint, 'Aire."

There was a knock at the door and Grantaire visibly paled while letting out a noise that sounded something like a strangled yelp.

Éponine winked, "I'll get it. I'm on my way out anyway…" and she shook off Grantaire's clutching hands that silently begged her not to leave him.

Grantaire remained huddled on their shared mattress, trying to ease his breathing into a regular pattern as he heard Éponine's falsely bright voice from the hall, "Oh Enjolras, _what a surprise!_ Grantaire's in the bedroom, I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you."

Then the front door slammed shut and Grantaire counted the footsteps up the hallway – heavy steps, not Éponine's light footfalls – until he knew that Enjolras must be standing right outside the closed bedroom door. Feeling heavy and out of place in his own body, the artist stood and took the interminable three steps towards the barrier that stood between him and the object of his lustful confusion.

Opening the door he smiled wanly, still having to remind himself to breathe regularly while simultaneously trying to remember how to form coherent speech. White noise rushed in his ears and his stomach seemed to be twisting into some sort of over complicated knot that may or may not be symptomatic of an actual medical disorder – he would have to speak to Joly about that.

"Hey," he said, his voice sounding hoarse and foreign and entirely wrong.

"Hey," returned Enjolras, "Mind if I come in?"

Grantaire stood dumbly aside, allowing the blonde into the room that suddenly seemed unbearably messy and embarrassingly inadequate a place for the confession he was about to make. Cigarette smoke hung in the air and the peeling posters on the walls were covered with flecks and sprays of paint. The grimy window was cracked and the damaged glass was inadequately covered by a few sheets of old newspaper taped haphazardly over it. The mattress on the bare floorboards surrounded by empty bottles looked like something that belonged in a brothel or a crack den, and there were piles of dirty clothes – men's and women's – scattered everywhere, which only added to the lewd impression.

"Sorry for the mess…" Grantaire apologised, running a hand nervously through his mop of hair.

"It's fine," said Enjolras stiffly, though he was inwardly shocked at the state of squalor that Grantaire and Éponine actually lived in.

"Do you want to sit down?"

"I think we'd better," Enjolras gave a small, tight smile which somehow made the knot in Grantaire's stomach relax ever so slightly; he knew why he was here.

They both lowered themselves onto the mattress and Grantaire rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands as Enjolras silently turned to face him, understanding that whatever needed to be said between them also needed to be given time to be said.

The artist inhaled deeply, then said with his head still in his hands and his dark curls obscuring his face, "I really like you."

It was as though that rushed exhalation of words had a carried with it the weight of months of tension between them, and though Grantaire didn't see it Enjolras' facial expression changed from one of attentive concern to complete serenity as that simple phrase poured out of the artist.

* * *

"Cosette?" Marius answered, his voice tremulous as he refused to believe what he immediately knew was true; she was here!

"Yeah," he could hear the radiance of her smile in her charming voice, "Come here, will you?"

In a daze, and with a sloppy grin plastered across his wet face, Marius stood and walked up the hall to his room. He found Cosette sitting prettily on the edge of his bed, her schoolbag on the floor but no sign of any other travel necessities.

"What are you doing here?"

The sly smile she gave in reply shot a bolt of heat through Marius' chest, "Dad's not really taking me on holiday this week. He'd never make me miss lectures like that."

"So, why..?"

Marius felt the familiar clumsiness overcoming him as he floundered between standing in the doorway and seating himself next to her on the bed; standing was too formal, too awkward, but sitting beside Cosette on a bed would be overwhelming, unseemly…

"I wanted to spend some time with you, alone. In private. Just so that we can talk."

Marius felt himself nodding dumbly, his head thick with dizzy happiness. Cosette patted the bedspread beside her and against his better judgement the law student found himself sitting down at the foot of his bed, alone in his house for once, with his impossibly beautiful, devastatingly clever, and terrifyingly assertive girlfriend.

"So we've been going out a while now," she began, her smiling eyes turned to Marius who nodded once in agreement, "And I think that we have something really special. I've never met anyone else like you Marius, so smart, so kind, so loyal, and so _handsome_," she grinned as he blushed, "Shut up, you are. I just want you to know how lucky I feel that I get to be your girlfriend and how happy I am with you. But I need to ask… When are things going to get physical between us? As in, sex."

Marius blanched, choked, then blushed furiously all within the space of a single second which he would forever remember as the most embarrassing second of his life.

"It's not a problem if you're not ready," Cosette hurried on, losing her surety at Marius' adverse reaction to her words, "I can wait if you're not ready. I'm _happy_ to wait for you. But I want you to know that I'm ready whenever you are."

"Um, okay. Well…" stammered Marius, his face burning a hot pink as he attempted to formulate some escape strategy, but she had him trapped; he couldn't make any excuse to leave when they were in his own home and she knew very well that he had no other plans for a Tuesday evening.

"You don't have to say anything right away," she soothed nervously, worried that she'd seriously misjudged her timing and overstepped some boundary, "I just wanted to let you know, that's all. I'm ready whenever you are."

"Um, can we just… Could we…" Marius squeezed his eyes closed and willed his breathing under control as he counted to ten before continuing, "I've never actually been physical – _as in sex_ – with anyone before."

"I know," smiled Cosette lightly, taking one of his hands in both of her own.

"So could we maybe start out slow? Not jump right to the… intercourse?"

Cosette smiled just as Marius dared to reopen his eyes, and the radiance and love that emanated from her in that moment dispelled his fears almost entirely.

"Of course. Whatever you need, my love."

* * *

Enjolras chose his words carefully, knowing that while rhetoric was his particular gift, he also seemed to have a knack of miscommunication with Grantaire. He felt that in order to avoid any future offense or misunderstanding between them simplicity was key, so he said quietly, "I like you too."

Grantaire's agitated fingers, which had been worrying his own curls as his head remained slumped in his lap, froze immediately.

"Come again?"

"I like you too," and this time Enjolras felt a genuine smile pull at his lips and colour his voice; this was nothing like the painful confession he had expected to make, it was more like a revelation, a lightening of the heart, and suddenly he wanted very much to reach out and touch Grantaire, to rub a comforting hand down that hunched spine, to clasp those worried fingers in his own.

"But as a friend, yeah?" Grantaire said, still refusing to look up at Enjolras, and the scrap of hope that sounded in his voice at this small concession seemed to tear a wound in Enjolras' freshly blooming happiness.

"Not as a friend, no. Not as _just_ a friend."

At those words Grantaire sat bolt upright, and though he still didn't turn to face Enjolras the law student could now at least see the artist in profile, and the expression of tight shock on his pale face was enough to make Enjolras laugh aloud.

"Why are you laughing?"

Now Grantaire did turn to face Enjolras, and the desire to touch him, to stoke a hand down his stubbled cheek, to brush those unruly curls from his forehead, was almost overwhelming.

"This isn't a joke is it? Oh god, please tell me this isn't a joke!"

"It's not a joke," smiled Enjolras, "It's been a long time coming but… I like you. And I am assured by every common acquaintance between us that you like me too."

"Of fucking course I do! Summa cum laude and you only fucking figure that out now? Here's some advice, if your legal studies don't work out, don't fall back on a career as a detective!"

Enjolras laughed openly, lightly; it felt so good to finally have that weight taken from him and be shared with him by Grantaire, beautiful Grantaire who was right there next to him on the bed, who was suddenly moving closer to him, whose murky green eyes were now closed, whose lips were wet and inviting and less than a breath away from his, and-

"Woah! _No!_"

* * *

Marius was feeling decidedly overwhelmed with the situation he now found himself in. Some small part of him wished that the comfortable Tuesday routine of meeting at the Café had not been interrupted; a larger part, a more animal part, a part made of pounding blood and a lust that he had barely known himself to contain growled that from now on _this_ should be the regular Tuesday schedule, _yes yes yes_, this should be the regular schedule for every moment of every day of the rest of Marius' life.

Cosette had begun by leaning over and placing a sweet, chaste kiss against his lips, not presuming that he would want anything deeper than that, or that he would even return the gesture. But Marius had returned the kiss, cautiously at first, though it was certainly not the first time their lips had pressed together, not the first time their mouths had slid open, their tongues had entwined, their hands had reached up to tangle needfully in long hair and shirt collars.

He broke away from the kiss gasping, but for the first time in his life he did not find himself ashamed of the stirring arousal in his gut that would very soon be making itself all too obvious in his trousers; Cosette's blue eyes were dark with lust, her full lips glistening pinkly, and she was _willing to do this_.

Not sex.

Not right now, at least. Marius knew for a fact that he wouldn't be capable of keeping himself under control long enough for that sort of activity, but there was plenty that could be done in the meantime, plenty of things that had hitherto seemed dirty or shameful but which now just seemed exciting and dear god he wanted to try each and every one of them!

"Are you ok?" asked Cosette, concern dulling the sparkle of lust that had lit her eyes a moment before.

"Yes," assured Marius, "Yes, please, don't stop."

She had all but leapt on him, which was how he found himself now, still fully clothed and seated on the bed but with Cosette straddling his lap and making such wanton noises in his ear as he kissed her throat that he knew his erection must be painfully apparent. This knowledge was confirmed as she ground her hips into his and sparks flew behind his eyes as he almost came right there.

He groaned loudly, breaking the contact of his mouth on her shoulder, and Cosette beamed down at him, her beautiful blue eyes dark and wicked as she stripped him bare with each stroke of her hand over his back, each muffled gasp, each slow slide of her hips.

"Cosette… I can't really…"

"Shh it's ok, I don't mind if you want to come."

Sparks flew again as Marius reeled in the aftermath of such a filthy word coming from such a pure and beautiful mouth.

"Would it be ok if I take your trousers off?"

Entire galaxies collided behind Marius' eyes at the possibilities presented by this offer; "Y-yes."

With another uncharacteristically wicked grin, Cosette slid off Marius' lap to kneel on the floor between his legs. He had to close his eyes as her nimble fingers worked his jeans open because the sight was just too much and if he came before she'd even divested him of his trousers he would never be able to look another woman in the face.

Then all at once he was naked from the waist down, Cosette's deft hands having worked his jeans and boxers down to his knees with one sharp tug, and it _should_ have been embarrassing, being so completely exposed to her while she was still clothed, but it wasn't, it was _arousing_, and his leaking cock twitched excitedly as she smiled delightedly with a mouth that Marius would never again think of as being pure or innocent.

* * *

Grantaire leapt away just as quickly as Enjolras recoiled from the artist's offered kiss, blurting out, "No? What? Why no? I thought- Oh god, what have I done?"

"No, no it's not you," Enjolras breathed, "It's me, it's completely me, it's just that… Well, do you remember when I asked if you were gay – sorry again about that, by the way - and then you asked if _I_ was, and I said I don't… I kind of meant that I _don't_."

"Don't what?" Grantaire's forehead creased in puzzlement and once again Enjolras ached to touch him, but knew that he needed to explain himself properly first.

"I don't… Do anything. With other people. Sexually speaking. Um, the correct term is asexual. Although since meeting you Courfeyrac informs me that the correct term is actually 'demisexual', meaning that I am only capable of feeling real sexual attraction unless there is an existing emotional connection."

"Right," Grantaire exhaled slowly, "Ok. So that little freak out just then, that wasn't me messing things up? Or it was, because I tried to touch you when you don't- Christ. I'm still a little lost here, Enj."

"It's ok. This is very new to me too. I do like you, and I do want to touch you, and I want you to touch me… I think I just need a little warning next time…"

"Okay, I can do that," Grantaire glanced down at the newly formed space between them, "Can I, um, hold your hand?"

"Of course," Enjolras positively beamed as he scooted closer to the artist, closing the gap between them by laying his head on Grantaire's shoulder as their hands clasped warmly together.

So, have you ever…?"

"How would I know I didn't enjoy it if I hadn't ever tried?"

"Ah. Ok."

Grantaire simultaneously felt a wash of relief at not being burdened with the responsibility of Enjolras' first time (if that was even a possibility on the table here – he didn't know at this point how much 'touching' Enjolras was willing to do), and a surge of jealousy at whoever had divested his Apollo of his virgin state. Jealousy was an uncommon feeling for Grantaire, who had always been free with his sexual favours, but nonetheless he found his face growing unpleasantly hot at the thought of anyone else touching Enjolras so intimately.

"Was it a guy or a girl?"

"A girl. A friend in high school. She was on the student council and used to help Combeferre and I arrange protests. She has two children now."

Grantaire almost choked.

"Not mine!" Enjolras quickly clarified, "No. It was just the one time, it was protected, and I didn't… I didn't finish."

Grantaire raised his dark eyebrows, "Did you ever think that maybe it was just the wrong set of genitalia?"

Enjolras nodded, "That did occur to me. Courfeyrac offered to help me 'experiment' but I didn't feel any need to. I felt no urges towards either men or women whatsoever, I never have. Until you."

Grantaire swallowed thickly, "Why me?"

Enjolras considered this, then replied truthfully, "I don't know."

Grantaire's shoulders slumped.

"But I knew," the student continued, aware that he was walking a thin line across Grantaire's fragile heart, "When I woke up at your flat after that protest… I knew there was something different about you, about the way you made me feel."

"Sure it wasn't the head wound?" Grantaire smiled wryly.

Enjolras chuckled, "I hoped it was. I've never felt anything like it to be honest. It was like physical arousal, only on an emotional plane. It was all very confusing."

"So you've never really felt… sexual arousal?"

"I've felt it. It's just a physical need though, like being hungry or thirsty. I never really attached any importance to it, or saw the need to get another person involved in the relief of it."

"Christ. That shouldn't sound so hot. Okay, but you've always just taken care of yourself? Oh god I can't believe I just said that. Ok, wow, so you've never really 'got anyone else involved'?"

"There was no need to. Besides," the blonde smiled wryly, "I always thought being fucked by the government was enough for me."

Grantaire laughed at that and Enjolras was glad to have relieved the awkward tension that their conversation had been building.

"Man… I'd really like to kiss you right now," Grantaire admitted, licking his lips self-consciously, "Would that be ok? No tongue or anything, promise."

Enjolras felt a shiver pass down his spine as he nodded and lifted his head off Grantaire's shoulder so that their lips were barely an inch apart.

Grantaire took the initiative, pressing his lips lightly, chastely, against Enjolras who allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he let himself fall into the unparalleled pleasure of love's first kiss.

* * *

Marius' ragged breathing was just returning to normal as he lay slumped back on the mattress with Cosette curled around him, one of her slim legs entwined with his and her blonde head resting lightly on his chest as it rose and fell erratically. As it turned out she had not needed to use her mouth at all to bring him to climax; she had simply wrapped her delicate fingers around the base of his cock and stroked him once before he had been unable to stop himself from spending in her hand.

Forty-two apologies later, Marius found himself staring at the ceiling, still half bathed in the afterglow of his most embarrassing orgasm to date and yet feeling like the luckiest man alive to have such a beautiful, intelligent, and deviously assertive girlfriend.

"I love you, Cosette," he murmured, his voice low as he carded gentle fingers through her long hair.

She sighed against his chest and snuggled in closer to him, "I love you too, Marius. Forever."

"Forever," he agreed, and just as his eyes fluttered closed he had a fleeting thought that forever might just be long enough for him to learn enough self-control to actually have sex with the goddess beside him.

* * *

The kiss deepened under Enjolras' firm insistence; knowing that Grantaire would now be too terrified to make any sort of sexual advance (and kicking himself for the knowledge of that), he carefully opened his mouth and swept his tongue across the artist's lips, while raising one long-fingered hand to sweep into dark curls and pull the other boy closer.

Grantaire, as predicted, was slightly alarmed by Enjolras' sudden forcefulness and made to pull away, but when Enjolras tightened his grip in Grantaire's hair, keeping the artist anchored to him, Grantaire let out a small groan and sank deeper into the kiss, his own hands coming to rest gently, hesitantly, on Enjolras' hips.

At last, after what seemed like hours, or possibly only seconds, Enjolras gently pulled away from the kiss, taking care to drag Grantaire's lower lip with him in a gentle bite as he did so. For a moment the two boys simply looked at one another, uncertain green eyes meeting clear blue ones, both with pupils blown wide. Enjolras' hand was still caught in Grantaire's hair, and heavy, callused fingers remained immobile on the law student's hips. Grantaire unconsciously licked his lips and Enjolras saw that they were red and slightly swollen, and the simple knowledge that he had been the one to make the artist look that way – as no doubt his own lips looked, thanks to Grantaire – sent another bolt of heat into the pit of his stomach, where it coiled heavily and meaningfully, making his breath come in heavy gulps despite how much he tried to disguise it.

"That was…You're amazing," panted Grantaire, seemingly as unabashed by his breathlessness as Enjolras was embarrassed by his.

"The things I would do for you," continued the artist, his eyes dark and lustful despite the shade of wariness there, "I mean, if you would let me… The ball's totally in your court. You can do anything you want to me, I mean it, anything at all. I really don't have any boundaries. And I'll do anything you want me to, anything you let me, and I promise it'll be good, I'll make it so good for you, I- Oh my god. Please make me stop talking. I sound like a porn star trying to write a love poem!" and he turned his face away from Enjolras, the already flushed cheeks turning a little pinker in discomfiture.

But Grantaire's devoted words had caused a surge in the heat at the pit of Enjolras' stomach, and the law student murmured quietly, "Keep talking please, tell me what you want to do," as he tugged gently at the artist's dark curls. This kind of arousal may have been new territory for Enjolras, but he was nothing if not tenacious, and he approached the challenge with the rational curiosity and determination to see it through that characterised all of his movements through life.

Grantaire's eyes snapped back to Enjolras', wide with surprise, but at a silent nod from Enjolras the artist continued in a low voice, "Wow, okay… Well you know that I've liked you for a long time, which means that I've had a long time to think about everything we could do together and oh god the things that I've thought about would make my mother turn in her grave! I think about you all the time, kissing me like you did just then, like you want me, like you need me, like you're completely in charge and I'm… Oh fuck."

Enjolras had looked down with a shuddery breath and caught sight of the prominent bulge in Grantaire's trousers. His own cock was beginning to stir as well, but the artist seemed to take the break in eye contact as a bad sign.

"Oh shit, sorry. Was that too much? Did I go too far? Sorry about…" he indicated his lap, "Y'know. Can't really help it around you, I guess," he gave a shaky laugh that was at once desperate and unsure and beautifully fearful, and it made Enjolras want to kiss him until he never felt any of those things ever again.

The law student looked up and said in a husky voice, "No. I want to hear it. I want to hear what you think about me doing to you. What you want me to do to you when we're alone, like this. Right now. What could we be doing right now?"

If it were possible, Grantaire's eyes widened even further and he groaned unashamedly despite the fact that the only points of physical contact between them were Enjolras' hand fisted in his hair, and his own hands stationary on the law student's denim-clad hips.

"Okay," he began, voice shuddering and suddenly hoarser than it had been a moment before, "Like I said, I wouldn't ever make you do anything you didn't want to, I wouldn't ask you to cross any boundaries for me… But if it was ok with you, I'd _really_ like to suck your cock one day."

Enjolras knew immediately that Grantaire spoke true; the heavy twitch in the artist's trousers confirmed how turned on he was by the idea of taking Enjolras in his mouth. Enjolras found the thought suddenly not as uninteresting as it had previously seemed to him, and the mental picture of Grantaire's swollen lips wrapped around him caused a swelling in his own groin.

"I mean, it's something I'd love to do for you, especially if, y'know, you've never had that before, because it feels really good, and I promise I know what I'm doing. I could suck you until you could barely stand, and I'd let you fuck my mouth if you wanted to, I'd like that a lot actually, I really would, you could fuck my mouth until you came down my throat and I'd swallow it all. Or you could pull out and come across my face if you wanted to, I'd like that too, being marked as yours, and I'd lick it all up, I wouldn't miss a drop, I promise… Is this too much?"

Grantaire was panting heavily now, the vivid imagery conjured by his own words swiftly exceeding what he could handle while fully clothed and in the presence of the man that those selfsame fantasies had centred on for so many months. Enjolras could tell that the other boy's erection must be pressing as painfully against the denim of his jeans as his own was; truth be told Enjolras had never _wanted_ so badly in his life and he was at somewhat of a loss as to how to handle the situation. So he settled on his default mode of rationalising and issuing instructions.

"No, no it's fine. That actually sounds like something I'd like to try with you. Keep going, I want to hear what else you think about. But… would you mind taking off your trousers?"

Grantaire at once leapt to obey and tried to stop himself, so he ended up making a strange jerky motion which involved snatching his hands away from Enjolras' waist, half standing up, then sitting down again heavily.

"You sure?" he asked breathlessly, "_Please_ be sure."

"I'm sure," smiled Enjolras, flattered by both Grantaire's willingness to obey and his desperation to respect the law student's boundaries, "Is it ok if I do the same?"

"Um. I would be more than ok with that. Yes."

And suddenly they were both sitting cross-legged on the mattress, facing one another with their hard cocks exposed and both chests heaving for breath. Enjolras realised how silly it looked to be wearing a shirt at this point, so he stripped that off too, and was quickly copied by Grantaire.

"Oh god," exhaled Grantaire, his cock twitching and already leaking with precome, "Oh my fucking god. In all of my fantasies I never actually thought that you telling me to strip would be that hot."

"What else do you want me to tell you to do?" encouraged Enjolras, having already picked up that this was an obvious kink of Grantaire's, and suddenly finding that perhaps it was a hitherto unsuspected one of his own as well.

"After you finish fucking my throat I'd like it if you told me… how good I was," Grantaire ducked his head, as if ashamed of this submissive desire, but he continued doggedly as Enjolras nodded encouragement, "And that I pleased you. And that you enjoyed coming down my throat, or across my face, or whatever."

"I would," cut in Enjolras, his voice husky and his words unintentionally spilling out of him, "I think I'd enjoy that a lot. I'd like to try it some time. Not right now, but some time I'd like to try fucking your mouth."

Grantaire looked as if every wish he'd ever made had been granted, and his cock twitched autonomously.

"Would you mind if I..?" The artist wrapped his hand gently around himself and Enjolras nodded, doing the same, as the dark haired boy continued his monologue while stroking himself firmly.

"And then I'd be so hard, just like I am now, and even though I'd had you in my mouth I'd want more, and I'd beg you for it, and you'd look at me like you always do – with that little frown, half stern, half exasperated – and you'd look me up and down and tell me to get on my hands and knees for you. And I'd do it, I'd love it, I love it when you boss me around, and I'd be on my hands and knees for you in seconds, and- oh fuck, god, this is too good, gotta slow down…"

"Tell me what I'll do to you when you're on your hands and knees."

Enjolras was stroking himself faster, and this was unlike any other sexual experience in his life. Of course he'd masturbated before, but it was a necessary exercise, an annoying intrusion of the body on his mind which was always focussed on far more important tasks than eating or showering or wanking. But this, _this_, was a total focus of the body and the mind on one common goal, and he found himself almost overcome with the sensation of it as Grantaire continued, the dark timbre of his voice indicating that he was reaching his peak as rapidly as Enjolras was.

"You'd… You'd open me up with your fingers. You'd be whispering filthy words in my ear, telling me to hold still and be quiet even though I'd be all but fucking myself onto your hand and whimpering and moaning because you're just so fucking beautiful and good and I don't deserve it. But you'd be there anyway because this is my fucking fantasy and in it you want me as badly as I want you, okay? Jesus Christ, Enjolras, I want you _so badly_… And if we were like that, with me on my hands and knees and you opening me up it wouldn't take long because I like it when you're rough, and you'd just push into me and I'd scream, but it'd be so good and it would hurt and you'd be so deep, and then you'd be fucking me properly and I'd be moaning your name and you'd be telling me that I'm a good little slut for your cock and, and… Jesus! Fuck, Enjolras!"

Grantaire came into his hand with a gasp and a shudder, some of his seed splattering onto his stomach as his exhalations became whimpers and his bright eyes screwed themselves shut.

It was enough for Enjolras, the sight of Grantaire coming completely undone before him while narrating what he wanted the law student to be doing to him. Enjolras came into his own fist with two more sharp tugs, and as he floated back to himself in the afterglow of the most intense orgasm of his life, he realised that he had climaxed with a drawn out moan of Grantaire's name.

They remained facing each other for a few minutes, panting in unison as each tried to process what had just happened between them. Finally, Enjolras broke the silence by asking, "Did you mean all of that?"

"Every word," blushed Grantaire, and Enjolras noted that this admission seemed to fluster the artist more than openly orgasming in front of Enjolras had done.

"I liked it."

"Yeah? Yeah, me too."

"I'd like to try those things you were talking about. I still want to take things slowly, but I'd like if we could build up to me fucking your mouth, and then bending you over."

Grantaire swallowed thickly, and had he not been sitting there with a fistful of his own still-warm seed then he would have been instantly hard at those words.

Enjolras smiled lazily, "So, uh, tissues?"

Grantaire wordlessly grabbed his discarded shirt and tossed it to Enjolras, who after a moment's hesitation cleaned himself off with it, passing it back to Grantaire so that he could do the same. The law student felt suddenly cold and he scooted closer to Grantaire, aware that now they were both spent there was no danger of any sexual misinterpretation of his actions, and curious as to what the feeling of skin on skin was actually like.

He found the warmth of it was something that he enjoyed very much, as he rested his head on Grantaire's shoulder and the artist's arms encircled his waist, holding him close in an intimate embrace.

"So do you want to grab some dinner?" Enjolras asked, still leaning on Grantaire's shoulder and blissfully content in his newfound physicality.

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

"I might be."

"You either are, or you aren't."

"Okay, then I am."

"In that case I'd love to."

Enjolras smiled; despite all his misgivings it was good to have someone to hold.


End file.
